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THE LOST COURT 


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THE HOUSE 

OF THE LOST COURT 


DONA TERESA DE SAVALLO 

MARQUESA d’ALPENS . 

60 J 7^1\4A » ^ ^ -- 



/ 


NEW YORK 

THE McCLURE COMPANY 
MCM VIII 


Copyright, 1908 , hy The McClnre 

Published, February, 1908 




Company 


\\^ 


pBRW of'coS^ 

Two Copies Hecefv^i 

MAR 5 1908 

I Gotijfngin entry 

cony 'a. 



CONTENTS 


CHAFIER PAGE 


I. 

A Missing Advertisement . 


3 

II. 

The One Condition 


. 15 

III. 

The Housekeeper .... 


. 23 

IV. 

At the Sign of the White Lion 


. 35 

V. 

Frances Asks a Question . 


. 42 

VI. 

Lady Chilford’s Dinner Party 


. 54 

VII. 

The Green Tunnel 


. 61 

VIII. 

The Little Ladies of Turk’s Cottage . 

. 70 

IX. 

The Man in the Gondola . 


. 84 

X. 

Love and Ghosts .... 


. 92 

XI. 

The Door Under the Terrace 


. 100 

XII. 

On the Other Side of the Door 


. 109 

XIII. 

The Ghost 


. 116 

XIV. 

The Second Dream 


. 127 

XV. 

Outside Things .... 


. 145 

XVI. 

Lady Desmond .... 


. 157 

XVII. 

A Ghost Picture .... 


. 170 

XVIII. 

The Question of a Dog 


. 180 


V 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 


XIX. 

A Box AT THE Theater 
* 

. 

. 


. 195 

XX. 

The Locket and Lady Desmond 



. 208 

XXI. 

Life is a Dream . 




. 215 

XXII. 

A Figure in Armor 




. 226 

XXIII. 

The Invisible Partner 




. 238 

XXIV. 

A Confession 




. 245 

XXV. 

The End of the Corridor 




. 249 

XXVI. 

Early in the Morning 




. 259 

xxvn. 

The Story as They Told It 




. 266 

XXVIII. 

When a Man’s in Love 




. 286 

XXIX. 

Lady Rosamund . 




. 292 

XXX. 

A Woman’s Battle 




. 303 

XXXI. 

Nina Thinks of a Plan . 




. 315 

XXXII. 

The Letters 




. 325 

XXXIII. 

“He Loves You”. 




. 338 

XXXIV. 

The Decision 




. 344 


VI 


THE HOUSE OF 
THE LOST COURT 





CHAPTER ONE 


A MISSING ADVERTISEMENT 

F rances ELIOT and Dolores, her daughter, came 
back to Claridge’s Hotel at five o’clock very tired, very 
hot, a little hungry, and a good deal discouraged. It 
was their third day of country house hunting. 

With country houses, dozens of country houses, whirling 
through their brains, they sat down in a corner of the big 
hall, which was peacefully quiet in its August dullness, and 
Frances ordered tea. 

‘‘ I’m getting so downhearted about it all, I could cry,” 
said she, leaning back limply as she pulled off her gloves and 
folded them with mechanical neatness. No matter how tired 
she was, Frances Eliot was always methodical, always daintily 
neat. She would somehow have contrived not to look untidy 
in a high wind, if she had forgotten her veil. To-day she 
had been ‘‘ on the go ” (as she would have said) since half 
past eight, had changed trains five times, had examined four 
large houses from attic to cellar, had walked over acres of 
lawn and garden, had driven in open carriages along dusty 
roads under a blazing sun ; yet her small-featured, ivory-pale 
face, her brown satin hair, and the brown hat and dress which 
matched it were as fresh, as spotless, as when she started out 
in the morning. 

It was not so with Dolores, though Frances was forty and 
Dolores nineteen. 


3 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


Dolores, named after a fair woman of Spain, where her 
English father had been born and spent his boyhood, was 
emotional, though shy of showing her emotions — half afraid, 
of them, indeed. These old EngHsh houses which she had vis- 
ited meant for her the poetry and historical romance of a 
great past. She was poignantly sorry for the people who were 
forced to let or sell their beautiful homes to strangers, for it 
did not occur to her that any of them could possibly part 
with such places of their own free will. She reconstructed 
their stories, and to her young mind all verged upon the 
tragic. Silently she suffered in the intensity of her sympathy. 
Each place she saw in turn she would have liked to take with- 
out parley, not always because she wished to live there, but 
because she could not endure the thought of disappointing 
the owners who had been so kind about showing their prop- 
erty, so wistfully anxious to dispose of it. She wanted them 
to have the money, which she felt they must be needing ter- 
ribly. 

This day had been harder than either of the other two, and 
Dolores was keyed to a highly nervous state, though she did 
not know that she was tired, and would have rushed off to 
look at another house if necessary. Usually she had a bright 
rose color, which came and went with her thoughts, as if some- 
body had been whispering compliments which no one else could 
hear, and her great brown eyes had the look of one who finds 
each moment of life an enchanting surprise. But now she was 
pale, and her white lids seemed weighted down by the long 
black lashes. 

I’m not a bit discouraged,” she said. “ I’m too excited. 
But I feel wicked to have disappointed those people. They 
did so want us to have their houses. If I were a queen I would 

4 


CHAPTER ONE 


have taken them all, or else sent anonymous presents of thou- 
sands of pounds to keep the estates up.” 

As this was an entirely unpractical suggestion, Frances was 
not interested. When Dolores’s imagination soared to impos- 
sible heights, Frances attributed it to the fact that the girl’s 
grandmother on the father’s side had been Spanish. The dear 
little woman from a Western State of America (whose husband 
had married her because she was dovelike, and bullied her be- 
cause she continued to be dovelike) smiled indulgently now at 
her daughter, and wished that tea would come. Waiting for 
it, she glanced round the hall, her eyes wandering until they 
focused with interest on a group in a far corner. 

The party consisted of a man and two women, and Frances, 
though she was new to England and its ways except through 
tales told by her husband, felt instinctively that these three 
were different from other out-of-season visitors at the hotel. 
They were “ grand people,” she said to herself simply, not 
of the sort who usually came to town in August. The two 
ladies were quietly dressed, and with a certain native shrewd- 
ness Frances Eliot decided that they were even above the 
‘‘ smart ” and frivolous set of whose doings she often read 
in novels with shocked interest. 

“ Do you see those people over there having tea, Lolita.'^ ” 
she murmured to her daughter. “ Now, they’re the kind of 
English people I want to get in with when we find our place 
in the country — the real kind, the best there is, like your 
father used to talk of when he told me about England.” 

Dolores naturally glanced first at the man. He was dark 
and handsome, with a fine and haughty profile, hair silvering 
at the temples, a black mustache, and a calm air of taking it 
for granted that nobody in the world could be superior to 

5 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


himself in position. The girl thought him quite old — forty, at 
least — but she admired his clear outlines, his leanness and 
brownness, and his look of breeding ; also being the romantic 
and imaginative young creature she was, the melancholy cast 
of his face, which probably meant no. more than boredom, in- 
terested her at once. 

“ I wonder if he’s married to one of those ladies ” she asked 
herself, “ and if he is, to which.? ” 

But, on a second glance at the woman, there could be no 
doubt that, if one were the wife of the “ interesting man,” as 
Dolores immediately named him, it must be the younger of 
the two, for the elder was assuredly his sister. 

She, too, was “ quite old ” in the eyes of nineteen — thirty- 
five, perhaps ; nevertheless, she was beautiful in a way which 
fascinated the girl, though it repelled rather than attracted 
her. The man’s face and the woman’s were cut on the same 
lines, and they had the same somber eyes where passion would 
be more at home than laughter, but Dolores liked the man 
better than the woman. “ She looks wicked,” the girl thought, 
half ashamed of the uncharitable comment, for she could 
not be happy in thinking evil of anyone, even a stranger. 
“ I’ve seen pictures of Cleopatra with an expression like 
that.” 

But it was difficult to fancy Cleopatra in a pale gray voile 
dress of the latest fashion, and a toque of silver tulle. 

As for the other woman, who could not be more than 
twenty-six or twenty-seven, she was not as striking or as hand- 
some as the brother and sister, but she was equally distin- 
guished in the same subtle way which the girl was too young 
and inexperienced to define ; and already Dolores was able to 
judge that the blandness and the air of aloofness from an 

6 


CHAPTER ONE 


insignificant world were both of an unmistakably English 
type. 

‘‘You see what I mean about them, don’t you? ” asked 
Frances, when her daughter did not answer. 

“ Yes, I see what you mean,” echoed Dolores. 

“ Can’t you imagine our knowing people like that when 
we’ve got settled in some beautiful old house, just as good as 
any they could possibly have themselves? ” Frances went on. 
“ They’d come to call on us, and we’d return the call. Then 
they’d ask us to dinner to meet all the neighboring lords.” 

“ Suppose there weren’t any ? ” the girl asked absent- 
mindedly. 

“ There would be. There always are in every county. Your 
father said so. The county people, you know. They call on 
newcomers, if they take a big house, and show that they’re of 
importance. None of the houses we’ve seen so far seem impor- 
tant enough to me, or old enough.” 

“ I think I should care a lot more about the house itself 
than about the neighbors,” said Dolores. 

“ Why, yes, so would I, in a way,” agreed her mother. 
“ But your father came of a good old family, you know, and 
he’d want us to get in with the right sort of people. It’s 
always been my dream to live in such a house and such a 
neighborhood as those he used to describe. I often said it was 
a pity he never thought he had time to come over himself.” 

“ He was busy making money for us, dear,” Dolores re- 
minded her. 

“ Yes, but he’d made enough long ago, long before he died. 
I guess it was partly because his own branch of the family 
had been estranged from the rich and grand branch, and he 
was too proud to introduce himself to relatives who’d thought 

7 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


themselves above his parents. I feel just that way, too. If I 
should ever meet any of the right Eliots I don’t believe I’d 
say one word about being related to them by marriage. But 
for your father’s sake, I wouldn’t mind their finding out that 
we were rich and living in one of the nicest places in Eng- 
land. It would be a kind of satisfaction. But thank goodness, 
here comes tea.” 

It was good tea, and Frances admired the gold spoons in 
the delicate saucers and the gold fork with which she was 
supposed to eat inviting-looking cakes. Also, she admired the 
gorgeous footman who brought the tray, and wondered if it 
would be considered appropriate in a country house to have 
powdered servants like that. 

For some years her husband, Richard Eliot, had been rich, 
with money made by hard work in America, where he had 
arrived from England a poor young man with only enough 
dollars to allow of his landing on a foreign shore. But they 
had continued to live on a ranch in Colorado almost as simply 
as if they had been no better off than at the time of the rather 
imprudent marriage. An accomplished governess for Dolores 
had been one of the few luxuries which Richard Eliot had 
thought worth having. But Frances had wider ideas for the 
future. She had always wanted to travel, and especially to 
see England, where she felt, with a sense of mild importance, 
that her husband’s ancestors had helped to make history. 
Richard had been dead for nearly two years now. Since then 
she and Dolores had seen Chicago and New York, and Fran- 
ces had learned how to spend money. 

It was pleasant to sit and sip their tea after the fatigue 
of the day, even though the day had been disappointing. 
They did not talk much for, though neither said as much to 

8 


CHAPTER ONE 


the other, the mother and daughter had become for the mo- 
ment more interested in the people across the hall than they 
were in themselves. They did not stare, but they contrived to 
see all that the man and his two companions did. 

The party had finished their tea, and were looking at some 
illustrated papers. Suddenly the man, who had appeared to 
be rather bored, waked to lively interest in something he was 
reading. He held the paper closer to his eyes, studying one 
of the pages, then let it fall on his knees, and sat still, staring 
in front of him, so absorbed in his own thoughts that he did 
not answer when his handsome sister questioned him. Again 
she spoke, and he seemed to come to himself with a slight 
start, as if he had fallen into a dream, and not a pleasant 
one. The younger of the two women addressed him. He an- 
swered with an air of impatience and got up, throwing the 
paper down on the sofa where he had been sitting. Promptly 
it slid off and fell on the floor, no one appearing to notice. 
The three talked together for a moment, and then the 
blonde young woman rose also, the elder remaining seated 
and shaking her head when her companion made some sug- 
gestion. 

“ I believe those two are married,” thought Dolores as the 
pair walked away together. “ They have the air of it — and 
of being a little bored with one another.” 

The remaining member of the party leaned back in her 
chair and turned over the leaves of a magazine until the others 
were out of sight. Then she instantly laid down the maga- 
zine and picked up the illustrated paper which her brother 
had (either by accident or design) let fall under the sofa. 

The paragraph or picture which had interested him was on 
one of the first pages. Dolores and her mother had both no- 

9 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


ticed that, and now they could not help seeing that the beau- 
tiful woman was searching for something. They did not say 
anything to each other, or even lift a significant eyebrow with 
a meeting glance, but neither had any doubt what that 
“ something ” was. She wanted to know what her brother had 
found which had surprised and displeased him so much that 
his mood had completely changed. 

Presently she came upon the thing — it was easy for the 
Ehots to see that. She, too, gave a little start, or rather stif- 
fened herself as if to bear a shock, bent closely over the paper, 
and gazed at it for a long time without moving or turning a 
page. At last she opened a little bag of gray suede and pro- 
duced a pair of tiny gold-handled scissors. Then she cut a 
square bit from the paper, and having placed the slip and the 
scissors in the bag, she rose and went away. 

“ That was like a scene in a play without words,” said 
Dolores. 

“ Yes. And I’m dying to know what it was in that paper 
they were so excited about,” answered Frances. “ What’s 
more, I’ve just got to know. Do go over there, like a dear 
child, and get the paper.” 

Dolores hesitated. “ It — seems so curious ; so — almost mean 
— behind their backs,” she said. 

“ Pooh ! ” retorted Frances. “ They wouldn’t care. We’re 
of no more importance to them than the chairs we sit on. They 
looked over here, not at, but right through us several times. 
Besides, I am curious. If you won’t get the paper. I’ll go 
myself.” 

That settled it. Dolores sprang up and dutifully, though 
shamefacedly, walked across the hall and back with the illus- 
trated paper in question. 


10 


CHAPTER ONE 


It was a copy of Country Life, and as Frances Eliot 
opened it at the first page she exclaimed eagerly : “ Oh, why 
did nobody tell us about this before? It’s full of the most 
fascinating advertisements of country houses for sale and to 
let. And — ^why, it seems to be only one of the advertisements 
which the lady has cut out! Nothing exciting after all. I 
suppose, like us, they’re wanting a house, and they thought 
this might suit them.” 

Dolores looked over her mother’s shoulder at the square 
hole in the page of attractive advertisements which illustrated 
and set forth the charms of various mansions, ancient and 
modem. “ They didn’t act as if they’d found something they 
wanted, but something they didnH want,” said she. 

“ That’s so,” agreed Frances. “ They did both behave in 
a mysterious sort of way. And it couldn’t have been their own 
advertisement, or else they wouldn’t have seemed surprised to 
see it. Only a house! It must have been that, because it’s 
right in the midst of a page with nothing but houses on it. I 
wonder if there was anything very interesting in the adver- 
tisement. This paper is dated a week ago. I’ve half a mind to 
send out and try to buy a duplicate, and see once and for all 
what those people were so upset about. Yes, I will. There’s 
no reason why I shouldn’t.” And before Dolores could object, 
even if she had been inclined to make objection, Mrs. Eliot 
beckoned one of the gorgeous servants of the hotel. She paid 
for the tea and cakes, and asked the man to send out at once 
for a copy of last week’s Country Life, 

Meanwhile she and Dolores put their heads together over 
the mutilated paper, keenly Interested in the long list of places 
for sale or to let. There were many beautiful ones, but noth- 
ing whose description drew them irresistibly, and they had 

11 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

finished their search before the whole copy which Frances had 
ordered was brought to them magnificently on a large silver 
tray. 

Mother and daughter had begun to realize how tired they 
were, and how nice a cool bath would be, but the moment 
they saw the missing advertisement they shed their fatigue 
as they had shed their dust cloaks. 

“What a heavenly place!” exclaimed Frances, gazing at 
the photograph of a wonderful old Tudor house, its walls 
checkered in black oak and white plaster, with trefoils, quatre- 
foils, and chevrons diapered in picturesque ornamentation 
over all. The upper stories, rich in strange oak carving, and 
with exquisite diamond-paned windows, projected quaintly; 
the gabled roofs and elaborate chimneys were festooned with 
ivy, and the rambling irregular building, as seen in the pic- 
ture, had a moat in the foreground with a curious drawbridge. 

“ O mother I ” Dolores almost gasped. “ It looks too good 
to be true ! It must be a dream. And how I should love to be 
in the dream, wouldn’t you ? ” 

We will be in it — the house, I mean, not the dream,” an- 
swered Frances, firmly and practically ; “ that is, if somebody 
else hasn’t got it before us. It looks just what we want. Why, 
it’s so beautiful it’s like some great, big, splendid toy ! And 
just listen to this.” 

She began to read aloud the paragraph underneath the pic- 
ture which described the house and estate in glowing colors. 

“ Queen’s Quadrangles ” was the name of the place, which 
consisted of a thousand acres of gardens, meadows, and park- 
land, with two farms. “ Of unique historic interest,” accord- 
ing to the advertisement. Queen’s Quadrangles had been 
built by a grandee of Spain, a follower in the train of Philip 

12 


CHAPTER ONE 


II, who had married a rich Englishwoman, a protegee of 
Mary Tudor. Mary had helped to plan the place, according 
to the story, and Queen’s Quadrangles it had been named in 
her honor and because of its Cypress Court and Fountain 
Court. There was a grand hall, stone paved and paneled in 
oak, with a remarkably beautiful staircase ; a dining hall, also 
paneled, with a minstrel’s gallery; a magnificent ballroom, 
a private chapel, and, as the description put it, “ many other 
extraordinarily interesting features which combined to make 
Queen’s Quadrangles one of the finest old houses in England.” 
There were terraces and a large lake, Italian and Dutch gar- 
dens, and a water garden arranged in Moorish fashion to 
imitate the general life at Granada. There were trees planted 
by Charles I and his queen, Henrietta Maria, and so many 
other inducements to tempt readers of the paper into wishing 
to possess the place that the paragraph describing them at- 
tained to quite an abnormal length. But the place was not ad- 
vertised for sale. It was only “ to be let, furnished, for a short, 
or preferably a long, term.” 

No price was named, but, having fallen hopelessly in love 
with the photograph, Frances Eliot felt that she would stop 
at nothing within reeison. She had wanted to buy a house, if 
she could find the right one, and make it her home — Dolores’s 
home after her. Now she was sure that she had found the 
right place, and since she could not own it, the next best thing 
would be to secure it for as long a time as possible. 

Her worst fear was that, as the paper with the advertise- 
ment was but one day less than a week old, the place might 
already have been snapped up by somebody else, and although 
Dolores persisted in her opinion that the “ interesting people ” 
neither owned nor wished to own it, Frances suspected some 

13 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

mysterious intention on their part which augured ill for her 
hopes. 

By this time it was nearly six o’clock, but consulting to- 
gether she and Dolores agreed that the offices of the advertis- 
ing agent might still be open. Tired as they were, there was 
no question in their minds as to what they must do. They 
would order a cab — a motor cab, if possible, so as to get there 
quickly — and drive at once to Wilcox & May’s. 

“ What if we find those people there before us ? ” eisked 
Frances, a few minutes later, as they were spinning toward 
Pall Mall. 

“ We won’t find them,” said Dolores confidently. 

“ Then why did they take such an interest in that para- 
graph.'* ” persisted her mother. 

“ Whatever their reason was,” Dolores answered, speaking 
more to herself than to Frances, “ it was deeper down and — 
and stranger than anything we’ve thought of.” 

“ You’re so romantic ! ” exclaimed Frances. 

Dolores did not attempt to defend herself. 


14 


CHAPTER TWO 


THE ONE CONDITION 

M essrs. WILCOX & may, the London estate 
agents who make a specialty of letting and selling 
old houses of historic interest, were on the point of 
closing their office for the night when the motor cab stopped 
before the door. Frances Eliot and Dolores almost ran in, 
their hearts beating with dread lest they might be doomed to 
sixteen long hours of suspense. 

A youth reassured them with the news that Mr. May was 
still in his office and willing to be interviewed. A moment more 
and they were ushered into the presence of this responsible 
gentleman, who looked almost worthy to have the disposal of 
Queen’s Quadrangles. 

Frances at once produced the paper, which she had brought 
with her, and pointed to the important paragraph. “ Is that 
place still to be had ? ” she asked, trying warily not to seem 
too eager. 

“ Yes,” replied Mr. May, ‘‘ fortunately, as we are the sole 
agents, I am able to assure you that it is still unlet. You see, 
it has only been advertised for a week or two, and as the 
house is one of the most beautiful and interesting to be found 
in England, the rent asked is not — precisely — cheap.” 

As he spoke his experienced eye noted the fact that his 
client was an American of the better class, rich no doubt, and 
probably willing to spend money. 

15 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ What is the rent? ” inquired Frances, a little anxious, 
but feeling more and more that she could not live without 
Queen’s Quadrangles. 

“ Fifty guineas a week if let for a short period, or two 
thousand guineas a year if taken by the year. But that in- 
cludes the wages of two gardeners and several other servants 
who — er — go with the place.” 

As he added this last bit of information, it appeared that 
Mr. May was slightly embarrassed, and Frances was quick to 
notice the change in his manner from rather pompous assur- 
ance to something almost apologetic. Had it not been for this 
just perceptible hesitation of his, she would have supposed it 
quite the usual thing in England for a number of servants 
to “ go with ” a place when it was let, but as it was she 
caught the agent up promptly. She wanted to live at Queen’s 
Quadrangles more than she could ever remember wanting 
anything in her life — except that Dolores should grow up to 
be a pretty girl — but she did not mean to be led blindfold 
into saddling herself with a place which, after all, was not 
what it advertised itself to be. 

“ Oh, there are servants who go with the place? ” she said 
cautiously. 

“ Yes. An additional advantage,” the agent assured her. 
“ The indoor servants who must be kept on by a new tenant 
are a very competent butler and an accomplished cook who 
have been in the service of the owner for so many years that 
she makes it a condition of letting that they must not be dis- 
charged. But plenty of extra servants can, of course, be 
engaged.” 

Mrs. Eliot’s Oh ! ” expressed relief. “ I should have no 
objection to keeping the old servants, as they are competent.” 

16 


CHAPTER TWO 


(“ Even if incompetent,” she added mentally, for by this time 
she felt that she must have the place. ) Two thousand guineas 
a year was equal to about ten thousand dollars, she hurriedly 
calculated. She could easily afford to pay that. She had even 
expected the price to be higher, for she knew what one would 
pay at Newport for a furnished “ cottage ” taken for the 
season. It did not, therefore, occur to her to haggle, and the 
agent, who had been prepared to come down step by step, was 
inwardly delighted. But he knew that all danger w^as not yet 
over. There were one or two details to be gone into which 
might prove stumbling blocks, as they had more than once 
already, in this business of letting the fine old place known 
as Queen’s Quadrangles. He would therefore enumerate all 
attractive features before hinting at others perhaps not 
wholly attractive. 

From a drawer he took out several sheets of typewritten 
paper and a bundle of photograplis. “ Perhaps you would 
like to glance over these,” he said, “ though, no doubt, you 
will wish to visit the place and decide as soon as possible, for, 
I must mention, we are having constant applications since we 
began to advertise.” 

Frances and Dolores looked at the photographs together. 
They were views of several magnificent rooms, furnished 
sparsely but beautifully in antique fashion ; of a large court 
with a marble fountain in the center, and another containing 
four tall Italian cypresses. This latter, Mr. May explained, 
was a copy, on\^ grander scale, of something in the palace 
of the Alhambra aVGranada. Also there were photographs of 
terraces and gardens, and one showing a lake which reflected 
clearly the black and white pattern on one wall of the distant 
house. The typewritten pages contained descriptions for 

17 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


which space could not be given in the advertisement, and when 
they had gone through all Mr. May was pleased, though not 
surprised, to see that the eyes of both his clients were spark- 
ling with excited admiration. 

“ I suppose,” he said cautiously, “ that it’s not possible you 
would care to make up your mind, madam, on the strength 
of what you have seen and what I have told you? Of course, I 
don’t urge this, and only suggest it, as we have personally 
inspected Queen’s Quadrangles and can assure you the place 
is all it’s represented to be, and more. We have had peo- 
ple in making inquiries every day, and could have let over 
and over again during the last week, if in some cases the rent 
liad not been an objection, and in others those offering to be 
tenants had not been themselves objectionable. But I think I 
understand that the price would not be too much for a lady in 
your position, madam? ” (tone and emphasis hinted a compli- 
ment) ; “ and you might be annoyed if some one else came 
in first thing to-morrow morning and told us they would take 
Queen’s Quadrangles for certain, before you had had time to 
communicate with us after waiting to inspect.” 

Frances was tempted, for the idea that the house of her 
desire should be snatched away was intolerable. But her hus- 
band had made his fortune by obstinately developing all that 
was practical in his nature, and she often vaunted herself 
to Dolores as an eminently sensible woman. It would not do, 
whatever happened, to lose this advantage with the girl who 
lived her life as if it were a charming dream. 

“ The — the drainage is good? ” she demanded. 

“ Guaranteed to be excellent. The only modern thing in 
this wonderful old house.” 

“ And — and the place hasn’t fallen out of repair? ” 

18 


CHAPTER TWO 


The agent fingered the photographs and counted them 
over. “ Oh,” he said lightly, ‘‘ if it were in too perfect a state 
of repair it would lose much of its picturesqueness. But there 
is nothing in the least ruinous, I assure you. Taking it alto- 
gether, there isn’t such a desirable estate in the market, nor is 
there likely to be again. Think, too, of the advantages in 
being so near London. In the county of Surrey, the house to 
be reached in less than two hours.” 

“ O mother, do say you’ll take it,” half whispered Dolores. 

But Frances wavered, fighting her own inclinations. 

“ I don’t remember if I mentioned that the social advan- 
tages of the neighborhood are very great, as well as the beau- 
ties of the surrounding country,” remarked Mr. May, as if 
carelessly and on a second thought. “ The Duke of Bridge- 
water’s seat practically adjoins the estate. I believe him to 
be a very courteous gentleman, quite a well-known author, 
too, with one young unmarried son, the Marquis of Tilling- 
bourne, who is in the army. Then there is Lord Chilford — the 
Earl of Chilford, you know — within easy driving distance, 
and a number of other titled persons who own fine places near 
by. Also, there is an important garrison town not too far 
away, if you care for military shows and society, madam.” 

“ It all sounds very delightful,” said Frances, in whose ears 
the names of the English nobility sounded not unmusically. 
“ But couldn’t you give me the refusal of the place until after 
I’ve run out to see it and got back to London ? ” 

“ I regret to say that would be impossible, madam,” replied 
the agent gravely. “ Others who have had orders to view may 
return when the office opens to-morrow morning, and close 
with us at once.” 

Frances Eliot felt a constriction of the throat, and Do- 

19 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


lores’s eyes were large and sad as a starving faun’s. “ Well, I 
don’t know, perhaps I’d better say I will,” began the prac- 
tical little lady, beguiled beyond her strength. But on the 
brink of the precipice she paused, struggling for a foothold. 
‘‘ It sounds almost too good,” she said. “ Are you sure there 
aren’t any drawbacks — or^ — conditions you haven’t told me 
about yet.^ ” 

“ No drawbacks, madam, but one condition, which I’ve not 
yet had time to mention,” Mr. May admitted with due dignity. 

“ A condition ? ” Frances’s heart grew heavy with the 
weight of presentiment. Yes, of course it had been too good 
to be true. 

“ Only this. The owner of Queen’s Quadrangles, a widow 
with no living children, desires to remain in charge of the 
house, either as housekeeper or over a housekeeper. She can 
accept no tenant who is not willing to allow her this position ; 
but many people would consider this an added advantage : her 
knowledge of the place, the servants, and the neighborhood 
would be invaluable. We have her written word for it that she 
would in no way put herself forward. The only status she 
desires to have is that of housekeeper, although her position 
entitles her to something very different.” 

“ It’s a queer thing that she should want to stay on in that 
way,” said Frances. “ I should hate it myself.” 

“ I suppose she loves the place too dearly to leave it,” sug- 
gested Dolores. 

“ Yes, but — is she really a lady.^ ” Frances asked the 
agent. 

“ Quite a lady.” He smiled almost in a superior manner. 
“ Her only son, who has been dead for some years, broke the 
entail for her sake, otherwise, on his death. Queen’s Quad- 

20 


CHAPTER TWO 


rangles would have passed out of the immediate family to the 
next male heir, a distant relative. In the circumstances, per- 
haps it is natural that the owner wishes to stay in her home.” 

“ She wouldn’t sell.?^ ” 

“ No. That has been proposed. But she refuses. However, 
if you become attached to the place and wish to keep it, it’s 
possible that being on the spot you may persuade the lady to 
change her mind.” 

This was an inducement ; but Frances had now got the idea 
firmly rooted in her head that the agent was trying to hypno- 
tize her into agreeing to take the estate without seeing it. It 
seemed likely to her that the eccentric owner might be a mad 
woman, or so impossible in some other way as to spoil all the 
pleasure of living even in so beautiful a place as Queen’s 
Quadrangles. 

“ How long did you say it took to get there from Lon- 
don.? ” she inquired. 

“ By fast train to Godeshall, which is the quickest way, the 
journey takes just over an hour ; but it’s a longish drive after- 
wards.” 

“ What about motoring.? ” 

Dolores was surprised at this question from her mother. 
Frances had not yet quite accustomed herself to motor cars, 
and had been terrified in the taximeter cab, which was still 
ticking away the time in the street before the office door. 

“ You might reach the house in rather less than two hours. 
Starting, say at nine to-morrow ” 

“ I was thinking of this evening so that I could let you 
know the first thing in the morning.” 

Mr. May raised his eyebrows. These American women were 
wonderful! But if this particular specimen of the race were 

n 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


determined not to take Queen’s Quadrangles without seeing 
it, from his point of view it would be better that she should 
see the house for the first time by twilight rather than in an 
uncompromising glare of sunshine. So he said “ Very well, 
madam,” without showing astonishment, and began to write 
out an order to view. ’ 

Frances took the bit of paper from him eagerly. “ You 
think they’ll let us in, even though it is evening.'^ ” she asked. 

“ I’m sure of that,” he answered. 

Then, having taken his client’s name and address, he bowed 
the mother and daughter out of the office. 

It was not until Frances and Dolores had actually started 
on their long journey in the motor cab that they remembered 
with some mortification that they had not asked the name of 
their prospective landlady. 



22 


CHAPTER THREE 


THE HOUSEKEEPER 

T wilight had fallen when they arrived at the Httle 
village of Clere, and stopped at a quaint sixteenth- 
century inn to inquire the way to Queen’s Quad- 
rangles, which they hoped was not more than two miles 
away; but it was a twilight brightened by a moon nearly 
full. 

Frances and Dolores were both rather hungry, but they 
could not have settled down to a meal until their suspense was 
over, and luckily, as they reminded each other, they had eaten 
plenty of buttered toast at tea time. Already it was so late 
as to make a visit of inspection and inquiry very unusual, 
almost eccentric, and they could not afford to delay a minute ; 
but they promised themselves to stop at Clere on the way 
home and have supper at the inn. This was an adventure, and 
it did not matter at what hour they got back to their hotel 
in London. 

They had reached England only a week ago, having 
crossed on a French ship and spent a fortnight in Paris. 
Until now, save for the flashing journey from Dover to Lon- 
don, and their frantic explorations in search of houses, they 
had seen nothing of the country. Surrey was “ what they had 
dreamed of,” they told each other: so peaceful, so exquisite, 
and so beautifully old; but Clere was better even than their 
dreams, though it seemed like one, even to practical Frances, 

23 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


in this mingling of hyacinth-blue twilight and silver floods of 
moonshine. 

The motor cab slipped almost silently through the main 
street of the village, and on either side they saw toy houses 
and cottages of mellow old brick, or pale yellow plaster, with 
thatched roofs and diamond-paned windows curtained with 
honeysuckle and roses. Here and there on the outskirts of the 
pretty hamlet was a larger, more important house, whose 
plain fa9ade and long lines of white-framed windows dated 
from the first days of the Georges, or perhaps Queen Anne. 
Then they swept out into the country again, passing a few 
comparatively modern villas and charming old farmhouses, 
turned to the left at an important-looking lodge which, from 
directions given at the White Lion, they knew to be the prop- 
erty of the Duke of Bridgewater, and having mounted a hill 
where the road was arbored with beeches and chestnuts, they 
arrived at an imposing stone gateway whose tall carved posts 
were gold and green with crusted lichen. 

Now their hearts were beating fast; for this was the prin- 
cipal entrance to the park of Queen’s Quadrangles, and in a 
few minutes more they would know their fate. But the gates 
were closed, and there was no light in the picturesque black- 
and-white lodge. The chauffeur reluctantly got out and 
opened one gate, Frances and Dolores drawing long breaths 
of relief as it swung back, for they had feared that it might 
be locked and the lodgekeeper away. Indeed, as the car turned 
into the avenue shadowed by vast oaks, they vaguely feared 
many things, they scarcely knew what, but disappointment 
of some sort. 

The avenue was long and winding, always under the shade 
of great trees, oaks, and beeches, with meadows on one side 

24 


CHAPTER THREE 


and parkland on the other. Then suddenly they came in 
sight of a house whose beauty gave them a shock of joy, gaz- 
ing at it across lawns and terraces. 

These lawns, with their groups of copper beeches and huge 
Lebanon cedars old as the Crusades, the motor cab had to 
circle round until it reached the north front of the house, and 
crossed the drawbridge Frances and Dolores had seen in the 
photograph. Many years, perhaps, had passed since that 
bridge had been raised, and its posts and chains were over- 
hung with masses of dark ivy. The moon’s reflection lay like 
a fallen silver cup in the water of the moat, shining in a clear 
space between white water lilies ; and beyond was the shadowy 
arch of the main entrance, a great open porch with a fine 
stone bench on either side, and splendid double doors of 
carved, nail-studded oak. 

Nothing could have looked less in keeping with such a house 
than a throbbing blue-and-red motor cab, 'and the two Ameri- 
cans felt impertinently modern and out of the picture as 
they descended to lift a huge knocker. Not a light was to 
be seen in any window of this north front, though as the 
car had circled round the avenue the unexpected visitors 
had caught a yellow gleam or two which now they had lost 
again. 

No one answered the first knock, and they had time to 
point out to each other the six tall, formally cut yews which 
Mr. May had called Queen Henrietta Maria’s “ Maids of 
Honor,” to discover on the left a distant sheet of silver which 
meant the lake, and to admire the stone vases on a carved ter- 
race wall. Then Dolores knocked again, having peered about 
in vain for any such modern innovation as a bell, and at last 
there was a sound which told them that the doors were being 

25 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

not only opened but unlocked. One was pulled back far 
enough to show a dim gleam of lamplight, and in its halo the 
figure of an old man. He stared out into the twilight, sur- 
prised, clean-shaven, his heavy white face and almost bald 
head, his big round eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles, 
making him look more like an owl than a butler, yet a butler 
he evidently was ; and seeing that the visitors were ladies, he 
opened the door somewhat wider. 

“ We’ve come to see the house, if possible,” explained 
Frances hastily and apologetically, gazing with curiosity 
into a stone-paved, oak -walled entrance hall which apparently 
led into another hall of immense size. “ I know it’s very late, 
but we came straight here from the London agents.” 

The old man was very old indeed. It was not to be imag- 
ined that he had ever been young; and one would not delib- 
erately choose a butler with a mere fringe of snowy hair, less 
than the meanest allowance of tonsure, thought Frances ; nev- 
ertheless, he had the true manner of a servant in a grand 
house, and, after all, the keeping him on would be no draw- 
back to the possession of Queen’s Quadrangles : therefore one 
doubt was settled on the threshold. 

As he ushered the visitors through the entrance hall, past 
a magnificent carved screen, into the great hall beyond, the 
butler took up the lamp which he had placed on a carved Jaco- 
bean chest, and the vast, dim space beyond had no other light 
save the blue and silver radiance which filtered in through 
enormous windows. These, on either side of the huge hall, 
were diamond-paned, the leadwork, outlined in black against 
the twilight, forming elaborate patterns according to the 
graceful ideas of Tudor times. But many of the window 
sashes were thrown back, and the newcomers could see that 

26 


CHAPTER THREE 


the hall was placed between two large, open courts; the one 
to the right having a fountain in the center* the one to the 
left beautified by four tall Italian cypresses. 

The butler set the lamp he carried on a refectory table of 
black oak, which stood in the middle of the hall, and begging 
the visitors to be seated, said that he would call “ her lady- 
ship.” 

“ He really is a dear old thing,” whispered Frances, as he 
passed beyond earshot, limping slightly. “ I wonder if he’ll 
call me ‘ her ladyship,’ when — that is, if — we take the place.” 

Dolores did not answer, because she did not hear. The 
house possessed her, absorbed her. She felt, sitting in the 
beautiful hall, in this mysterious blue and silver twilight 
gilded by the yellow star of the lamp, as she had felt some- 
times when listening to the music of a noble church organ. 
Dimly, as her eyes accustomed themselves to the dusk, she 
traced the richly carved pattern of the oak wainscoting, 
which reached to the high ceiling, and saw in the circle of 
lamplight how the vague tints of the stone-flagged pavement 
came out, in soft, purplish gray streaked or splashed with 
yellow. She wondered at the size of the splendid old fireplace, 
with a stone wolf on either side, holding each a shield where 
the gold and red and blue of a coat of arms had faded into a 
blur of mingling color. She saw that there were two noble 
staircases leading to a gallery above ; and then, as her eyes 
strove to conquer the darkness, a figure seemed to grow out 
of it, coming down the stairway on the right: a woman’s 
figure, dressed in black. 

So erect was it, and daintily modeled, that it seemed to be 
the figure of a girl ; but, having descended the stairs, it moved 
toward the center of the hall where the visitors sat, and came 

n 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


into the small circle of lamplight. Then the face was illu- 
minated clearly, and it was not the face of a girl, but of a 
beautiful woman, whose beauty was dimmed though not oblit- 
erated by years of self-repression or suffering. 

The mistress of Queen’s Quadrangles was of a type never 
seen before by the two Americans. Her face was of the sort 
which ought never to grow old. There was a kind of frozen 
youth about it still, though fifty years at least had marked 
it, and not wholly in love. 

The idea came to Dolores that the woman was like a delicate 
white rose wLich, just as it neared the perfection of its bloom, 
had felt the nip of frost, and then, before it could fall, had 
been dipped in some preserving fluid which would keep it ever 
the same — not beautiful as it had been, yet in a pale likeness 
of past loveliness. Yes, it was a young woman’s face grown 
suddenly old, before it had passed through the mellowing 
changes of middle life ; and now it seemed that it could never 
alter more. 

A strange pity mingled with admiration sprang up in 
Dolores’s heart. This woman who came gracefully to greet 
them — gracefully and graciously as a queen, though her 
plain black dress might have been “ second best ” for a self- 
respecting housekeeper — looked as if she had once been a 
spoiled darling, made for love and sensuous happiness; a 
sweet, petted child of sunshine. But her hair was silver white 
now in the lamplight, and every line of those delicate features, 
w^hich would have been adored by a miniature painter, had 
been hardened unnaturally by the effort to endure privation 
or sorrow. 

Perhaps Frances Eliot did not see all this ; but Dolores saw 
at a glance, and was ashamed of the keen curiosity the 

28 


CHAPTER THREE 

woman’s face aroused in her, though that curiosity was en- 
tirely sympathetic. 

IMother and daughter both rose, as the figure in black ad- 
vanced to them, and Frances plunged at once into explana- 
tions. They were dreadfully sorry to be late, but they had so 
wanted to see the place, and yet had feared to risk losing it 
by waiting until to-morrow. They hoped they were not dis- 
turbing Mrs. — Mrs. 

“ My name is Rosamund Vane-Eliot,” answered the mis- 
tress of the house, speaking for the first time, in a sweet, 
though curiously repressed voice. “ Strangers call me Lady 
Rosamund.” 

This was a double shock. She was an Eliot ; and the butler’s 
“ her ladyship ” had meant more than the exaggerated re- 
spect of an old servant. Neither Frances nor Dolores had ever 
met anybody whose name had a “ handle,” and last of all had 
they expected to meet one in the person of their landlady. But 
a thing still more extraordinary was that she should be an 
Eliot. 

“ My name is Eliot, too,” almost stammered Frances, who 
had but lately been reserved as to her husband’s ancestry. “ I 
— I’m American, but my husband was English. I don’t know 
much about his people, except that there was a poor branch 
and a rich branch, and that it was an old family. He didn’t 
care to talk of them, and he never told me the name of their 
place, if they had one, as I suppose they must have had. 
Goodness! how very queer if we should be related, and if — 
if this house ” 

“ It’s quite possible,” the lady replied, when Frances 
paused, somewhat embarrassed as to how to go on, or whether 
it would be safer not to go on al all. “ Is it a coincidence that 

29 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


you should have come here to see this place, or did my agent 
tell you the name of the owners and so interest you in* it? ” 

“We forgot to ask your name, we were in such ^l^urry,” 
said Frances. 

“ He told you nothing about the family, then? ” 

“ Nothing at all. He only showed us the phot^^ gayp hs and 
description. I’d just seen the advertisement in an JHustrated 
paper.” 

Dolores, watching in fascination the beautiful, faded face, 
saw a sudden light of relief flash across it ; and the curiosity 
of which she was ashamed grew keener than ever. Why was 
the lady glad, she wondered, that the agent had said nothing 
about the family? 

“ Ah ! then it is rather an odd coincidence that our names 
should happen to be the same,” said the soft voice, out of which 
the slight thrill of emotion had suddenly died, leaving only 
courteous indifference to a possible relationship. “ You really 
think of renting the place? ” 

“ Yes, indeed,” answered Frances. “ I am very anxious to 
have it — more anxious than ever, now that I’ve seen it, 
and ” 

“ You have hardly seen it yet,” said the other. “ I will take 
you over the house, but as I have lived here alone with a very 
few servants for many years, seeing no one, only the two or 
three rooms which I occupy are lighted at night.” 

Frances protested that she had already seen enough 
to enable her to decide, but Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot 
would not accept her impatient suggestion that a tour of the 
house could be made another day. She and the butler, Soames, 
each carrying a lamp, conducted Mrs. Eliot and her daughter 
from one end of Queen’s Quadrangles to the other, leading 

30 


CHAPTER THREE 


them through a magnificent dining hall, reached by a long 
gallery running round one end of the fountain court, to a 
large drawing-room and a smaller one, on to the ballroom, 
and a splendid library. On the ground floor, besides these 
immense rooms (the great central hall and the two Moorish 
courts) were ranged along the north front, to the left of the 
stone-walled entrance hall, a beautiful private chapel, with 
painted window glass of the early sixteenth century ; a 
priest’s room and a steward’s room. To the right of the en- 
trance lay the servants’ hall, and various domestic offices, each 
room marvelously beamed with old oak. On the floor above 
were many bedrooms and dressing rooms, and two or three 
quaintly pretty boudoirs. Frances was exclamatory in her 
rapture, and Dolores lost in silent wonder at the thought that 
such a place might become her home. “ It would be like living 
in a romance,” she said to herself, a romance all the more ex- 
citing if it could in any way be proved that the Vane-Eliot 
family of Queen’s Quadrangles was connected with the Eliots 
of whom her dead father had been one. 

Vane-Eliots had lived here — so said the widow of the last — 
since the days of Elizabeth. Don Filipo de Casa Meliflor, who 
had built the house, had married a Mistress Margaret Vane, 
and as there had been no son, the place had come into the pos- 
session of her people. The Vanes and Eliots had intermarried, 
and the names had been joined together; but now, explained 
Lady Rosamund hastily, as if eager to answer a question 
and finish the subject forever, the last Vane-Eliot was gone. 
Another family estate of equal importance with this had be- 
come the property of a distant relation named Eliot. 

“ A cousin of poor Richard’s, perhaps,” thought Frances, 
deeply interested. But aloud she made no comment. Some- 

31 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


thing in Lady Rosamund’s manner — though Frances was not 
as sensitive as her daughter — told her that the mistress of 
Queen’s Quadrangles would have avoided talking of the fam- 
ily if she could without ungraciousness. 

“ After all it’s no wonder, as Mr. May said it was her only 
son who died and left her this place, by cutting the entail — 
whatever that is,” the little American woman thought, with 
an impulse of sympathy. And then, having returned at last 
to the great hall, Frances set herself as tactfully as possible 
to solve the mystery of that odd “ condition ” which she was 
now able to understand less than ever. It could not be, she 
was sure, that this lady — a great lady, it would appear, in 
manner as well as by virtue of title — could possibly wish to 
stay on in the house in a subordinate position. There must 
be a mistake. Mr. May had certainly confused Lady Rosa- 
mund with some other person. 

It seemed easy enough to ask, and yet when she began, it 
proved difficult. Frances hesitated and showed that she was 
confused, as she beat about the bush wherein lurked the 
question. 

“ There — there was something about a condition,” she fal- 
tered. “ I don’t think I could have quite understood your 
agent. I ” 

“ You mean that I stipulate, if the place is let, to be al- 
lowed to act as housekeeper for the tenant ? ” cut in Lady 
Rosamund quietly. 

“ Yes. But is it really you — not some one else.? ” 

“ There is no one else.” 

Frances stood amazed and deeply embarrassed. “ How 
could I have you for a — a housekeeper.? ” she argued. “ You, 
with your title ” 


CHAPTER THREE 


Lady Rosamund laughed with a ring of bitterness. “ My 
title ! ” she echoed. “ That is nothing. When you’ve lived in 
England longer, you will see how little a title can mean — 
sometimes. I want very much to let this place, Mrs. Eliot. I 
need the money. But — I can’t go away. I hope you will take 
the house. I assure you, I wouldn’t trouble you at all. And I 
think I’m not a bad manager. I could satisfy you, I believe, 
as your housekeeper. And you need see no more of me than 
you would if I were the ordinary kind. Indeed, I should much 
prefer that. If you would not mind, I should like to use the 
steward’s room, which you saw, as my sitting room, instead 
of the one that used to belong to the housekeeper before my 
day. That would be the only favor I should ask, except to 
keep on the two old servants I could not bear to see turned 
out. But then, the keeping them was part of the condition, 
was it not.f^ ” 

Frances, utterly bewildered, assented. To have a Lady 
Rosamund Vane-Eliot for her housekeeper was, in a way, a 
distinction; but it was an embarrassing distinction, and one 
with which she would gladly have dispensed; but — anything 
rather than give up Queen’s Quadrangles now that she had 
seen it. She told Lady Rosamund that she should certainly 
take the place, and that she would not only send a letter to 
reach Mr. May the first thing in the morning, but would her- 
self be at his office the moment it opened. Having decided 
once and for all, she was no longer cautious about betraying 
eagerness; and as she talked on about the pleasure she ex- 
pected to find in living at Queen’s Quadrangles “ for years 
and years,” Lady Rosamund’s large, sad eyes regarded her 
with a curious wistfulness, not unlike compunction. Dolores, 
listening always in silence, as befitted a young girl between 

33 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

two older women, saw this strange, fixed look, and wondered 
at it. 

“ Does Lady Rosamund know of some reason why we won’t 
be happy here? ” she asked herself. “.Some reason which she 
can’t tell, because it is so necessary for her that we come — 
and yet she is sorry for our disappointment? ” 

Such a fancy seemed morbid and silly, and Dolores — who 
was in reality neither morbid nor silly — tried to put it away. 
But for the moment her new joy of possession was dampened. 
It was as if in some bright, beautiful room she had opened a 
door which she had not seen at first, and found hidden there 
something dark and ugly. 


34 


CHAPTER FOUR 


AT THE SIGN OF THE WHITE EION 

I T was useless, of course, to attempt seeing by moonlight 
the gardens and orchard, the park and farms, the sta- 
bles, coach houses, and kennels, which would come into 
the possession of the new tenants of Queen’s Quadrangles ; 
but Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot cordially offered her vis- 
itors refreshment. Her dinner, the simplest of meals, she 
confessed, was over; yet there would be something which 
might pass as supper if Mrs. Eliot and her daughter would 
have it. 

With thanks they declined, and Lady Rosamund did not 
press them to change their minds. If she did not look relieved 
when Frances announced that they must be going at once, she 
certainly appeared neither hurt nor disappointed. The place, 
she said, was ready and at their service whenever they chose 
to come in, and Frances replied that their wish would be to 
arrive in a few days. All formalities should be gone through 
as soon as possible with the agents, and meanwhile they would 
be looking forward with the pleasantest anticipations to their 
new life. “ You will tell me,” Frances finished rather timidly, 
“ all about the — about English etiquette, and that sort of 
thing, won’t you It will be a great advantage for us having 
you here on that account, if you will be so kind as to give us 
a few hints.” 


35 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ I am afraid I don’t quite understand,” said Lady 
Rosamund. 

“ I mean,” explained Frances, “ about returning calls, and 
entertaining, and all that. I shall want to do everything in a 
way worthy of Queen’s Quadrangles, and — ^and the Vane- 
Eliots, who were perhaps my husband’s ancestors.” 

For an instant Lady Rosamund was silent, and Frances 
had a faint, mortified pang lest she were offended by this last 
claim. But after the slight pause she answered gently that 
she would always be glad to give such advice and help as she 
could. Then the three bade each other good-by, and the butler 
showed the Americans out with his most gracious ancient- 
servitor-of-the-nobility manner. 

Neither mother nor daughter spoke, as the motor cab spun 
them away. They were absorbed in looking back, taking in 
the charm and dignity of the old house which was to be their 
new home. 

“ I feel as if all the wishes I’d ever wished had suddenly 
come true,” said Frances. “ We shall have to live up to this 
place, Lolita.” 

“ Yes,” answered the girl. ‘‘ One ought to be very noble in 
mind and beautiful in body to be appropriate to Queen’s 
Quadrangles.” 

Frances laughed happily. “ Well, you are beautiful, girlie. 
As people have told you that, ever since the day you were 
born, it can’t make you conceited for me to say it, too. As for 
me, I must do my best. But I can’t feel equal even to the 
thought of my high duties till I’ve had something to eat. I 
didn’t want to bother her ; but I kept myself up with the idea 
of that dear little inn. We’ll stop now and have supper there.” 

So when they came to the village of Clere, Frances told the 

36 


CHAPTER FOUR 


chauffeur to stop the car at The White Lion, whose ancient 
sign creaked welcomingly in the breeze. 

There was a tiny, wainscoted hall, with a taproom on one 
side — showing brave gleams of copper and old pewter through 
a half -open door — ^and a coffee room on the other. 

Into the latter the landlord himself escorted his two guests — 
a little man, who might have saved up money as a coachman. 
He stood rubbing large-knuckled hands together, and smiling 
a quaint three-cornered smile as he named over the things 
which he could provide, even at such short notice, for supper. 
As the ladies did not much mind what they ate, food was not 
long in coming, and the beamed, low-ceilinged room was 
so charming, the landlord so deferential, that the admir- 
ing Americans fell into a friendly mood. The old man 
waited upon them himself,* superintending a maid, and was 
delighted to answer their questions about the neighborhood, 
from the household of His Grace down to that of the village 
doctor. 

“ I suppose Queen’s Quadrangles is one of the oldest places 
you have about here.^ ” asked Frances, leading up to an an- 
nouncement later on — an announcement which she was guile- 
lessly sure would greatly interest so polite and pleasant a 
person. 

“Yes, madam, and one of the finest,” he answered to his 
hearer’s delight. It was nice to have this disinterested infor- 
mation from a man who could have no idea of their intentions, 
and Frances determined to extract more before giving any on 
her part. 

“ Although, of course, it’s unfortunately been allowed to 
go down a bit these late years,” the landlord added, arranging 
cheese and biscuits on the sideboard. 

37 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ Oh, it has gone down, has it? ” asked Frances. 

“ The money ’aving went to the new baronet, on the death 
of ’er ladyship’s son, and she getting the estate with no visi- 
ble means of keeping it up,” the old fellow explained. 

“ Then the son who died was a baronet? ” echoed Frances. 
“ I knew there was a title, but I thought ” 

“ Oh, if you ’ave no knowledge of the family, madam, 
’twould be difficult to understand, ’er ladyship being Lady 
Rosamund,” broke in the host, deference for his guests fight- 
ing with a sense of importance in dealing with foreigners un- 
versed in the intricacies of English titles. “ You see, she was 
the da'ughter of a marquis, but her late ’usbin. Sir Digby 
Vane-Eliot, dating from the twelfth century — as a title, I 
mean, madam — and being at the time of the marriage a rich 
gentleman with two fine estates, it was not thought that ’er 
ladyship made a bad match.” 

“ Is a marquis a good deal higher than a baronet in rank ? ” 
inquired Frances, not ashamed of ignorance in details consid- 
ered trifling in her native land. 

“ Yes, madam. A marquis ranks next to a duke,” replied 
the landlord, mouthing the high titles with respect. “ And a 
marquis’s daughter can keep ’er courtesy title when marrying 
a baronet or knight.” 

“ I see,” said Frances, struck with awe at the thought of 
having the daughter of a marquis (to say nothing of the 
widow of a baronet) as a housekeeper — wageless — who, like 
the servants, “ went with the place.” It was really appalling ! 

“ The county people and gentry hereabouts thought ’twas 
almost a pity about cutting the entail,” continued the old 
man, as he set a plum tart and a jug of cream on the table. 
“ There being no money, except what ’er ladyship |;nay ’ave, 

38 i 


CHAPTER FOUR 


and no one seems to know ’ow much that is, it does look as if 
’twould ’ave been better for Lost Court to be in ’ands able to 
keep it up.” 

“ ‘ Lost Court ’ ” repeated Frances. “ What is that,'* ” 

The wizened face of the old man suddenly changed, and 
lost its little polite, three-cornered smile. “ Oh, well, madam,” 
he answered reluctantly, “ it’s a nickname we ’ave in the coun- 
tryside for Queen’s Quadrangles; but it slipped my tongue, 
madam, I assure you, as I would not wish to fail in respect 
to ’er ladyship.” 

“ But why are you failing in respect to her ladyship by 
giving the place that name.? ” Frances persisted. 

“ On account of the story, madam. Sir Digby in his life 
pooh-poohed it, so I’ve ’eerd ; and as for ’er ladyship, she can’t 
bear it, folks say.” 

“ What is the story ? ” asked Mrs. Eliot, though her 
daughter’s eyes were disapproving. Dolores could not have 
told why, but vaguely it seemed to her that there was a kind 
of treachery to the sad lady of Queen’s Quadrangles in ask- 
ing these questions of a gossiping old man at a village inn. 

“ Strange you’ve never ’eerd it, madam, knowing something 
of the place, as you do,” said the landlord. “ It’s not come 
to your ears, then, that Queen’s Quadrangles is sometimes 
called the House of the Lost Court.? ” 

I'rances shook her head. “ That’s a strange name,” she 
commented. “ What can it mean .? ” 

“ Why, only that there was supposed to be, in the old days, 
three courts instead of two: that the house was built in that 
fashion with three quadrangles, so to speak, one with a foun- 
tain, one with four cypresses, and one with — nobody knows 
what. But, of course, it’s only a tale, madam, and a scandal- 

39 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

ous tale in some ways. Folks say the Spaniards brought over 
by the grand don who made the house, in Queen Mary’s and 
her Consort Philip’s day, babbled about that third court, and 
the grandee’s real reason for having it. And they say, too, 
that ’twas known to exist, for several generations at least 
afterwards ; but then it seemed to disappear in some miracu- 
lous manner, or else the house was altered before the memory 
of those who write histories of big houses, and so the court 
was finally done away with. Only the name and the story of 
it has never been forgotten.” 

“ I shall ask Lady Rosamund,” said Frances, “ to tell me 
about the third court, and what really became of it, if it ever 
was there.” 

Instantly the little old man stiffened into prudence, throw- 
ing a sharp look at the American lady who, posing as a tour- 
ist, had drawn him on to gossip, by concealing the fact that 
she was an acquaintance of the mistress of Queen’s Quad- 
rangles. 

“ Why, yes, madam, that would be the best way,” he re- 
sponded primly. “ ’Er ladyship could tell you, if so be as 
there’s anything to tell, which I mistrust, except the old tale 
bein’ an amusement for strangers and sightseers in these 
parts. By my w^ay o’ thinkin’, ’twas most likely invented for 
that in the beginning. I can give you some nice fresh plums 
to finish up with if you like, madam.” 

Dolores stifled a laugh. To finish up a tale of mystery ab- 
ruptly with some nice fresh plums was a maneuver which ap- 
pealed to the girl’s sense of humor. But Frances saw nothing 
funny in the landlord’s sudden accession of prudence. She 
was merely annoyed with herself for the rash speech which 
had frightened the old fellow into caution. She accepted his 

40 


CHAPTER FOUR 


offer of plums, and suggested coffee as well, in the hope of 
pleasing her host; but try as she would, she could extract 
from him no more gossip concerning Queen’s Quadrangles or 
those who had owned and lived in the place from generation to 
generation. 


41 


CHAPTER FIVE 


FRANCES ASKS A QUESTION 

F rances ELIOT was very happy and excited for the 
next two or three days. There were various details of 
business to settle with the agents, and there were a 
good many things to buy for Dolores and herself. 

In novels written round English country-house life, Frances 
had read of garden parties and stately dinners. She expected 
to be invited to plenty of these, and to give them in return. 
Probably she and Dolores would eventually become acquainted 
with the duke and his family, as w^ell as various neighboring 
earls and other personages of importance. She bought a 
peerage, and having with some trouble mastered its minor in- 
tricacies, learned to her delight that the county of Surrey 
abounded with nobility and gentry. Sooner or later shie would, 
she supposed, know them all; for she was taking Queen’s 
Quadrangles for a period of five years, with the privilege of 
first refusal in case she desired to remain as a tenant even 
longer. 

Frances wanted earnestly and conscientiously to be a credit 
to the name of Eliot, and to carry on all the best family tra- 
ditions, whether Richard’s Eliots had been connected with the 
Vane-Eliots or not. Her husband’s taciturnity on the subject 
of the “ rich branch ” of Eliots made this fact somewhat diffi- 
cult to find out ; but she determined that, when she learned to 
know Lady Rosamund, she would ask to see the “ family 

42 


CHAPTER FIVE 


tree ” ; and if it had been kept up to date, or nearly, she 
would probably be able to discover all she wished to know. 

It was decided that Frances and her daughter, with a maid 
engaged in London, should go to Queen’s Quadrangles for 
“ good and all,” on the Monday morning following the end 
of the negotiations. Mother and daughter had been tempted' 
to run down for another look at the place, meanwhile; but 
there had been a great deal to do in town in the short inter- 
val ; and besides, Dolores thought it would be more perfect to 
keep the glories of park and gardens for “ a surprise,” until 
Queen’s Quadrangles was actually their own. Frances spent 
much time and money, therefore, in buying for herself and 
her daughter numerous dresses and hats which wise milliners 
advised her would be appropriate as well as charming for 
country-house gayeties. 

For Dolores, whose flowerlike. Southern beauty was beyond 
compare in Frances’s eyes, there were frocks for tennis, for 
croquet, for garden parties, and dinner and ball gowns suit- 
able to a young debutante. If the Duchess of Bridgewater 
had not, unfortunately for newcomers in the neighborhood, 
reposed in the family vault for some years, Frances would 
certainly have planned that she should be persuaded to pre- 
sent Dolores — perhaps Dolores’s mother — in the following 
spring; but as it was, a mere countess or viscountess would 
have to do; or perhaps Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot herself, 
if the fact that she had taken up the role of housekeeper 
would not prevent her from appearing at court. 

Frances was between two minds about buying a motor car, 
and going down in it to her new-old home ; but after a day or 
two of indecision she decided to wait. The sort of people she 
wanted to know were old-fashioned folk of aristocratic solidity, 

43 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


and vaguely she felt that such persons might not approve 
of motor cars. Lady Rosamund kept no horses or carriages 
at present. Frances had been tersely informed by Mr. May; 
but as there was ample accommodation, Mrs. Eliot could have 
as many of both as she chose to buy. 

. It occurred to her that it would be interesting if some 
neighboring magnate — perhaps the duke himself, who must 
be a judge in such matters — could be induced to advise her. 

There is no railway station at Clere, a village almost as un- 
spoiled as it must have been in the day of the Georges, when 
the last, most modern of its few important outlying houses 
were put up. Frances and Dolores Eliot, accompanied by 
their new maid, Parker (whom they feared, and would have 
liked to call Sophia) alighted therefore at Gadeshall, with 
many large American boxes, and found themselves obliged to 
take a five-mile drive. 

Three large, old-fashioned cabs — all the village of Gade- 
shall could supply — were requisitioned for the newcomers and 
their belongings. And instantly the news of their arrival 
spread. 

How this flashing far and near of the intelligence began 
was difficult to guess, unless Parker had dropped a few words 
to the railway porters who wrestled with the astonishing pile 
of luggage; but certain it was that within an hour it was 
known in the three shops of Clere and the five of Gadeshall 
that Lost Court had been let to a rich American lady with 
one daughter. Within two hours the word had been passed on 
from these shops — especially the Cooperative Stores which 
had a branch in each village — to the servants’ halls of most 
houses within a few miles’ distance, even to the mansions of 
the great. Ladies’ maids told their mistresses; and as the 

44 


CHAPTER FIVE 


tenants of Queen’s Quadrangles had arrived about ten o’clock 
in the morning, their coming was discussed at more than one 
luncheon table. 

“ What — Lost Court let.?’ ” for Lost Court the place was 
called by high and low, within a radius of at least ten miles 
of Queen’s Quadrangles. “Lost Court let? Americans, eh.? I 
wonder if they know? And what will become of that poor 
woman.? Well, no doubt she’ll be happier away. Give her a 
chance to forget — if such things can be forgotten.” 

Such were the comments, with elaborations, in most houses. 

But meanwhile Frances and Dolores had reached the end 
of their five-mile drive, and were settling down after the 
shock of new impressions. 

Some of the impressions were disappointing, though neither 
would have said so to the other. Only Frances did remember 
now that Mr. May had seemed pleased, as well as surprised, 
at her proposal to visit Queen’s Quadrangles in the evening. 

The blue and silver mystery of mingling dusk and moon- 
light had veiled much that was shabby and faded, as the 
mother and daughter realized when they came again in full 
sunshine, armed with the rights of possession, their contract 
irrevocably signed. But then, after all, thought Frances con- 
solingly, what did it matter.? She would have signed the 
agreement just the same, even if she had known how faded 
and even ragged were the beautiful old brocades and embroi- 
deries on the furniture in the large and small drawing- 
rooms, how disastrously worm-eaten much of the ancient oak, 
how past redemption many of the rare Persian rugs, how 
hopeless the curtains, how washed into ineffective whiteness 
the chintz coverings in bedrooms, and how many the spaces 
between portraits and pictures by old masters in the picture 

45 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


gallery which was the ballroom. Rare books were gone from 
the bookshelves in the library, too ; it was, alas ! easy to guess 
how, once enlightened as to the failing family fortunes. 
Corners in the great central hall, which ought to have been 
filled by suits of armor, were empty; panels which had evi- 
dently been draped with tapestry were bare, and almost raw 
looking, compared to neighboring panels never covered. Cabi- 
nets which should have been crowded with priceless china were 
sparsely decked ; and here and there, in some nobly appointed 
room, were desert spaces once occupied by some piece of fur- 
niture too fine for poverty to keep in days when all things 
antique are fashionable. But for Dolores, at least, the house 
was only the more pathetically dear for what it lacked of 
luxury. And even for Frances, Queen’s Quadrangles was still 
the place she preferred beyond any other she had seen or 
heard of. She would have liked to buy things to fill up the 
most conspicuously vacant spaces, and would have enjoyed 
having some expensive decorator down to replace shabby vel- 
vets and brocades with new copies of the old ; but though she 
was (temporarily) mistress of Queen’s Quadrangles, she was 
dimly aware already that there were things she must not dare 
to do with it. 

What rooms had been Lady Rosamund’s before the begin- 
ning of the new regime Frances did not know, for a tour of 
inspection over the house by daylight showed no signs of 
occupation. All was faded, desolate, forlornly beautiful, im- 
personal, save for the fresh flowers, which the thoughtfulness 
of the new housekeeper had caused to bloom in the most habi- 
table rooms on the two floors which constituted the whole of 
Queen’s Quadrangles, save for enormous cellars and laby- 
rinthine attics. 


46 


CHAPTER FIVE 


The gardens, exquisite in design, and more than one as 
old as the days of Don Filipo and his Margaret, also bore 
testimony to family misfortunes. Two gardeners had done 
their best, but both were elderly, one going blind; whereas 
gardens and lawns were many enough and vast enough to 
need the constant attention of half a dozen energetic men. 

Frances, seeing all the consequences of long neglect, inside 
and out, summoned courage for a talk with Lady Rosamund. 

The late chatelaine, now housekeeper, had by permission 
taken up her quarters on the ground floor, in two rooms 
facing north — rooms as little desirable from the point of view 
of comfort as could be found at Queen’s Quadrangles. These 
were the priest’s room (next to the disused chapel directly on 
the left of the entrance-hall) and the so-called steward’s room 
adjoining. One was to be the housekeeper’s sitting room, the 
other her bedroom, where she would be, she had said (as if 
in explanation of her rather eccentric choice) conveniently 
near the servants’ hall and kitchens. On the night of her first 
visit Frances had been given a glimpse of these two gloomy, 
deep- windowed, oak-paneled rooms, they had then been prac- 
tically unfurnished. What Lady Rosamund had done to 
them since she did not know, and did not expect to know, for 
she was sure that she should never be brave enough to pay 
the strange housekeeper a visit in her own private quarters. 

Arriving at the house soon after ten, and finishing with 
Dolores an inspection of the house and gardens before twelve, 
Frances ventured to send Soames with a request that her lady- 
ship would kindly come for a few moments into the great hall. 

Promptly, as if under orders. Lady Rosamund came. 

She had already seen the newcomers that morning, hav- 
ing received them with a gracious, yet studiously repressed 

47 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


manner, just escaping a proud humility which might have 
embarrassed the Americans. She had asked Mrs. Eliot at 
what time she wished to have her meals; had offered to show 
linen cupboards and other domestic store places (an offer 
politely waived aside) ; had announced her readiness to do 
anything which Mrs. Eliot might require of her, and had 
then unostentatiously vanished, believing perhaps that the 
mother and daughter would prefer to make their second tour 
of the house alone. 

Now, Frances had seen everything, had begun to under- 
stand a few things, and knew better than before what direc- 
tions to give, what advice to ask. 

Seen in broad daylight Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot seemed 
more remarkable than ever. Before, her sad beauty, her look 
of frozen youth might have owed something to the magic 
and mystery of the moonlit twilight; but prosaic noon was 
able to rob her of no attribute that had made her wonderful 
at first. 

She found Mrs. Eliot sitting on a big chintz-covered sofa, 
which was one of the few comparatively modern objects in the 
hall; and that modernity was of sixty or seventy years ago. 
Goodness knew, as Frances said to herself, whether the sofa 
had been given a new cover in its whole career. 

Lady Rosamund, in neat, plain black, would have stood if 
Frances had not impulsively jumped up and begged her to 
sit down, or she would not! 

“ I am your housekeeper,” said the deposed mistress of 
Queen’s Quadrangles, with a slow, sad flicker of a smile which 
already Frances had seen reluctantly come and go once or 
twice. “ It’s not usual for a housekeeper to sit in the presence 
of her employer.” 


48 


CHAPTER FIVE 


My gracious, as if you were a ‘ usual ’ housekeeper, or as 
if I were your employer ! ” cried Frances, her neat little fea- 
tures flushing. “ I just can’t stand it to live here, if you’re 
going to talk and act like that. Lady Rosamund, and I do 
want to be happy in this house.” 

“ And I want you to be happy,” said the other. “ It would 
be most ungrateful and ungracious if I did anything to make 
your life here difficult.” 

“ I don’t see why ungrateful,” argued Frances. “ You 
haven’t any reason to be grateful to us.” 

“ Yes, I have,” said Lady Rosamund. “ It was most neces- 
sary for me to let this place, and not everyone would have 
been willing to put up with the conditions I was obliged to 
exact. I know that it would be pleasanter for you, coming 
into this house, if I were not here — and the poor old servants 
whose capacities, I’m afraid, are hardly equal to their faith- 
fulness and loyalty. But ” 

‘‘ Please don’t say ‘ but,’ ” broke in Frances. “ I guess 
faithfulness and loyalty are about the best recommendations. 
I wouldn’t wish, I wouldn’t turn them out, for anything. 
And I understand exactly why you want to stay.” 

“ Do you ? ” asked Lady Rosamund. She looked at the 
kindly little American woman rather searchingly. 

“ Why, yes. It’s been your house all these years, and 
every stick and stone must be full of associations for you. 
You say you want us to be happy. Well, and we want you 
to be happy. One reason why I told the butler to ask if I 
could see you again this morning was because of that. We 
haven’t had any sort of a talk yet, you know. Won’t you — 
won’t you please be with us — at meals and all the time — just 
as if we were your visitors ? ” 

49 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


It had been hard for Frances to ask this, and deep down 
in her heart she did not wish it, for she vaguely felt that the 
position would be strained, and that she and Dolores would 
not be at ease if a stranger were always with them. But she 
wanted to do the “ nice thing ” by Lady Rosamund, whom 
she pitied and shyly admired; and her heart gave a fright- 
ened little jump when she saw the color leap up to the 
faded cheeks of Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot, as if under a 
blow. 

How young and beautiful she looked while that color lasted, 
so young that the snow white of her hair might have been 
powdered. 

“ Thank you ; you are very kind, but that would not make 
me happy,” tlie housekeeper answered. “ If I can know any 
happiness, it is in loneliness, which has become second nature 
to me. I shall be glad to serve you always ; but kind as you 
are, our lives must be lived apart. Think of me as your 
employee.” 

“ If — if you’re an employee, you ought to have a salary. 
Lady Rosamund,” Frances exclaimed, trying to laugh, as 
though half in joke. “ I think you ought to have — hundreds 
of dollars — or pounds, or whatever is right.” 

“ You are paying a high rent for Queen’s Quadrangles,” 
Lady Rosamund said, “ considering the dilapidations, about 
which perhaps I ought to have warned you that first night 
when it was too dark for you to judge. I didn’t do it — 
frankly I didn’t — because it meant so much to me to let the 
place. And I confess I have tried to let it and failed several 
times, though it was only lately I made up my mind to con- 
sent that the agents should advertise in a newspaper.” 

“ You mustn’t blame yourself. I’d have taken the house 
50 


CHAPTER FIVE 


even if you’d given me a written list of all the wormholes,” 
laughed Frances. “ We’re both fascinated with everything, 
Lolita and I, and looking forward to such a good time! I 
want to ask you how many servants you think we ought to 
keep, and how many extra gardeners we ought to get. Oh, 
and then — about horses and carriages I ” 

Lady Rosamund’s face was troubled and sadder than 
before. “ Do you think you would care for a lot of servants.? ” 
she asked. “ There are only you and your daughter, I under- 
stand. With old Soames, and Bennett — who really is an ex- 
ceedingly good cook, you’ll find — and perhaps two young 
women from the village, distant relations of theirs (all these 
people have lived on the soil for generations, you know), and 
your own maid, wouldn’t it be enough for indoors? As for 
gardeners, a coachman and groom or two ” 

“ Oh, but we shall perhaps have a good deal of company 
by and by I ” cut in Frances. 

“Have you many friends in this country?” Lady Rosa- 
mund’s voice had an inflection not unlike controlled anxiety. 

“ No, none except a few American ones who might happen 
to be visiting England. But we shall get to know the people 
around the neighborhood.” 

Lady Rosamund did not answer, though Mrs. Eliot paused ; 
and presently Frances went on again. “ I think I should like 
plenty of servants, if you don’t mind.” 

“ I have no right to mind,” said the other. 

“ And I thought of several carriages,” continued Frances. 
“ A pony cart to potter about in, and drive ourselves, for 
Lolita would act like that. A — Victoria and a brougham, for 
weather and wet, to make calls, and maybe a motor.” 

Lady Rosamund turned round on one of her beautiful taper- 

51 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


ing fingers her wedding ring and its guard — the only two 
rings she wore, and said nothing. 

“ Then Lolita will want to ride.” 

“ Yes, of course,” Lady Rosamund assented readily enough 
to that. 

“ And the question is, am I to engage the servants — or will 
you, as you know about English ways and I don’t.” 

Lady Rosamund said that, unfortunately, of late years she 
had forgotten all she ever knew. She had dropped out of 
things. She thought that Mrs. Eliot, when she had decided 
how many servants she wanted — under Soames and Bennett 
— had better herself go to some agency in town and engage 
them. 

“ About horses and carriages, though,” went on Francos. 
“ I suppose I ought to have a man to advise me. Llad I better 
wait until some of the local people have called, or ” 

“ Mr. May might recommend you to some one who would 
know,” Lady Rosamund said quickly. “ I advise you not to 
— wait for people here, but go to him.” 

That then was decided. And Frances began to talk about 
the charms of the place, a change of subject which she 
thought would please the deposed mistress. 

“ It’s quite unique,” she ran on. “ Those two courts ! I’ve 
never been to Spain, but somehow they seem to transport me 
there. I do think they’re beautiful. Is it true there was ever 
a third court ” 

She was not conscious of watching Lady Rosamund as she 
asked this question. But suddenly she knew that she must 
have been, for she saw the white rose face suffused with 
red. The blood swept in a tide from chin to temples, and 
lingered; then slowly ebbed and left a pallor no longer soft 

52 


CHAPTER FIVE 


as a faded rose petal, but sickly sallow. For a dreadful in- 
stant Frances thought that Lady Rosamund was going to 
faint, but after a long moment she spoke quite calmly. “ A 
third court Oh, I believe there is some such story. But if 
there ever was one, it must have been very long ago, before 
the memory of anyone living. Evidently the house has been 
almost entirely pulled to pieces and altered since those days, 
if another court did exist.” 

There was no trace of feeling in her tone which was bored 
rather than expressive of emotion, and Frances asked herself 
if the change of color were a mere coincidence which had had 
nothing to do with her words. Yet, when the look on Lady 
Rosamund’s face came back to her, as it did more than once 
that day, she could not believe that it had meant nothing. 

“ There was another court once,” she thought. “ There 
must have been; and it was connected with some terrible or 
shameful episode in the Vane-Eliot family. Of course they 
had a good reason for destroying it and altering the house! 
I had better say nothing more to Lolita about it. Sensitive 
and imaginative as she is, brooding over such ideas might 
spoil her pleasure in the place, and that would never do.” 


53 


CHAPTER SIX 


LADY CHILFORD’s DINNER PARTY 

S EPTEMBER had come, and Lord and Lady Chilford 
were giving a little dinner party at Riding Wood. It 
was really a little dinner, not merely belittled by the 
modesty of host and hostess. 

A great many people were in Scotland ; but Lord and Lady 
Chilford were not rich, and could not afford Scotland, unless 
they visited, and they were not asked to visit, at the sort of 
houses they liked, as often as they had been when they were 
younger. Besides, they were important at home, and not im- 
portant anywhere else, except on the Riviera, where they had 
a tiny villa, and led society in a small winter town beloved by 
retired officers and their families. 

All houses in the neighborhood of Clere, save those of the 
very great or smart, emptied themselves with exceeding joy 
in honor of even a “ little dinner ” at Riding Wood ; and it 
was the same at Ramone, that pretty nest of villas and shops 
among the olives between Nice and Cannes. It was only those 
who were not invited to the dinners who sneered at them and 
their givers as boring and dull; who said that Lord and 
Lady Chilford were only able to give these entertainments 
(characterized as meager) or to afford a villa at Ramone, 
by means of intricate petty economies such as letting Rid- 
ing Wood for a low rental in the winter, and the villa for a 
month of the high season about Easter time, when they usu- 

54 


CHAPTER SIX 


ally came home “ because there was nothing like England in 
April.” 

The Duke of Bridgewater was a distant cousin of Lady 
Chilford’s, and annually appeared at one or two of the din- 
ners, though his son, Lord Tilhngbourne, who liked only 
pretty or amusing people, seldom came when he was at home. 
But plenty of neighboring magnates, and especially those 
wishing to rank as magnates, were delighted with an invita- 
tion from Lady Chilford; for after all, an earl and countess 
are an earl and countess, even when poverty and age have 
somewhat dimmed the gold of their coronet. 

Riding Wood was the sort of house which could be let (as 
it generally was) in winter, only because the sort of people 
who took it liked to say that they were stopping at “ Lord 
and Lady Chilford’s place in Surrey.” The shooting, which 
was good, was always let also, because, as Lady Chilford said, 
her husband did not care about it, and she wasn’t equal to 
big house parties. A little entertaining was all they could 
manage; and they enjoyed having a few friends about them. 

Lady Chilford, though nearer sixty than fifty, was still 
living up to the past of her complexion, and the golden hair 
which had made her a toast in the days when its glory had 
not come out of a bottle. She had never had any real thoughts, 
but she was kind to those who did not come under her ban as 
“ queer,” and unkind to no one. She could forgive almost all 
things to all men, and many things to most women, except 
“ making up,” which she tolerated only in such isolated cases 
as herself and those at least equal to her in station. 

Lord Chilford had a little body, a mind to match, and a 
noble profile which would have been splendid looking out of 
a visor. He adored his wife as the greatest beauty of present 

55 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


or past days, chirped anecdotes about his and other old fami- 
lies, and was happy when he was asked to play the flute. 

To-night, in the somewhat uninteresting drawing-room, 
furnished in accordance with mid-Victorian taste, were assem- 
bled Sir George and Lady Gaines of Clere Court (Sir George 
had made millions in tobacco, and had been knighted because 
of his millions, on the strength of which the loud, red-faced 
man and his good-natured dumpling wife were tolerated in 
the county) ; General and Mrs. Calendar — the general very 
tired and deaf, Mrs. Calendar delighted with herself and 
everything that was hers, doubtful of women she did not know, 
especially if they were young or good-looking, inclined to ask 
concerning women, “ Who was she ? ” being unconsciously 
pleased if the answer were unsatisfactory ; and the Reverend 
James Heckshaw, Vicar of Clere, with Lady Ermyntrude 
Heckshaw, his wife. Also there was Captain the Hon. St. 
John de Grey, Lady Ermyntrude’s younger brother, visiting 
her on sick leave, and visibly bored despite the presence 
of the high-colored Gladys Gaines, invited for his benefit. 
Lady Ermyntrude’s face was a mask, which ought to have 
expressed all the virtues, as she sincerely believed that she 
possessed them; but in reality it expressed nothing, whereas 
her brother’s expressed too much. But then, he was like the 
other side of the family, the side which mingled French and 
Irish blood, and did extraordinary things. 

With the hors d^ceuvres, soup and fish, the talk was of the 
weather, of politics, and a scandal or two, decorously handled. 
Apropos of the scandals, perhaps, came up with the roast the 
subject of the Americans at Queen’s Quadrangles; and so 
eagerly was it seized upon by all that they might have been 
lying in wait for the opportunity. 

56 ^ 


CHAPTER SIX 


“ Of course you haven’t called, dear Lady Chilford,” said 
Mrs. Calendar, who was, comparatively, a newcomer in the 
county. 

“ Well no, I hardly could in the circumstances,” answered 
her hostess, in a gentle, deliberate voice. “ You know — but 
rather, I suppose you don’t know, as you’ve been among us 
for such a short time, that Lady Rosamund and I used to be 
quite friendly.” 

“ I don’t call four years a short time,” Mrs. Calendar has- 
tily put in. 

“ I mean, it was long after — everything happened. Poor 
Rosamund is a year or two younger than I ” (eight would 
have been nearer the mark), “ but she — well, as a girl and a 
young woman she was a good deal spoiled. She always was — 
what shall I call it? — a man^s woman. I don’t mean that in 
any — any offensive sense, of course, but she liked men better 
than women: she studied to please them. Then — came that 
awful thing ” 

“ Don’t speak of it, my dearest,” chirped Lord Chilford. 
“ You know, you are never well after thinking of it. It was 
a disgrace to the county.” 

“ A real tragedy for the whole neighborhood,” breathed 
the vicar, with a far-away look in his nice, near-sighted eyes. 

“No wonder you don’t like to talk about it,” said Mrs. 
Calendar. “ Still ” 

“We never discuss the details. We never did,” put in Lord 
Chilford. 

“ Rosamund received no one at the tim^e,” went on Lady 
Chilford. “ That is, directly afterwards. At the very time, 
people kept away, for her sake. Later, most of us wrote to 
her. But she either never answered or answered so coldly that 

57 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


one could do nothing. So, of course, even if one wished to, one 
couldn’t possibly call on new people, staying in that house. 
Unless perhaps, you, Mr. Heckshaw.” 

“ I really haven’t had the courage,” confessed the vicar, 
with his pleasant, apologetic smile. “ With Lady Rosamund 
still in the house — she almost put me out, once, years ago. 
And I’m afraid you’ve all discovered about me, long since 
that, for my sins. I’m naturally shy. I struggle against it — 
but it constantly overpowers me, with people I feel don’t want 
me, or with new people.” 

“ Even with the cottagers,” said Lady Ermyntrude, his 
wife. “ The more they need it, the more difficult it is to get 
him to go and talk to them about their souls. Says he can’t 
bear to force himself upon them. Really, it’s absurd. I’m sure 
no such thoughts would ever occur to anyone but James.” 

‘‘ I know it’s absurd,” admitted the poor vicar, distressed 
that the conversation should remain focused so long upon 
himself. “ But I can’t help it. I wish I could.” 

“ What sort of looking persons are these Americans who’ve 
taken Queen’s Quadrangles.?” asked St. John de Grey, who 
had arrived at the vicarage only two days ago. As he spoke, 
he glanced sympathetically, though with a humorous twinkle 
in his eyes, at the round, flushed face of his brother-in-law. 
The vicar was always glad when St. John came to stay. He 
was such a good hand at unobtrusively changing subjects 
when they began to get uncomfortable. He was very different 
from Ermyntrude, but then he was much younger. And, of 
course, Ermyntrude was perfect in her way, a most capable 
and excellent woman, if without her brother’s sense of humor. 

“ The mother is very American, though I must say she looks 
really as if she might be a lady,” Mrs. Calendar took upon 

58 


CHAPTER SIX 

herself to answer the question, as nobody else seemed in a 
hurry to speak. 

“ Why do you say, ‘ though ” inquired John de Grey. 

“ Well, one meets — or rather sees — so many odd Ameri- 
cans, you know. They seem such new people. And it’s so dif- 
ficult to find out who they are. I’m not sure that I should 
have called on these, even if they’d taken some other place 
instead of Queen’s Quadrangles.” 

“What about the daughter.?” went on De Grey. “Does 
she come under the same category ? ” 

“ Oh, she’s prptty,” admitted Mrs. Calendar. “ At least 
I suppose she’d be called pretty, though her eyes are really 
too big for her face. Don’t you think so. Lady Ermyn- 
trude.?” 

“ I’ve never happened to see either the mother or daughter, 
except in church. And, of course, one doesn’t look at people 
in church,” said Lady Ermyntrude. She had married Mr. 
Heckshaw because she had thought that she could convert him 
to high-church opinions and usages, but he had been a disap- 
pointment to her in more ways than one. However, even the 
daughter of an earl must not expect too much in life, if her 
hair is thin, her nose large, and her dower small. 

“ Oh, they do go to church, then.? ” remarked St. John. 

“ Yes,” said his sister, looking particularly expressionless. 
“ They come to church.” 

“ By Jove, I do think you and Jim are brave not to call 
on them ! ” 

“ We’d have been brave to go,” groaned poor Mr. Heck- 
shaw. 

“ There’s no question of bravery,” Lady Ermyntrude re- 
proved him. “ It is simply impossible that either of us should 

59 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


go there to that house. I’m sure they couldn’t expect it, even 
of James, as the vicar.” 

“ I’m not perfectly sure that they donH, or rather that 
they didn’t at first,” said Lady Chilford. “ I have an idea 
they must have taken the Quadrangles without knowing.^^ 

“ Then it’s jolly hard lines on them to come into a place 
and wake to find themselves pariahs,” said De Grey. 

“ It may be hard, and we may feel pity for them,” replied 
his sister. “ But in the circumstances we cannot help them. 
People oughtn’t to take houses without finding out all about 
them beforehand.” 

“ One asks questions about drainage and things like that, 
but it would hardly occur to one to inquire whether there are 
any tragedies running loose about the house,” said her 
brother. 

“ It’s not our fault if they were careless.” 

“ Don’t make us more miserable about these people than 
we are already, St. John,” implored the vicar. 

“ I am not miserable. I feel that I am in the right,” re- 
torted Lady Ermyntrude. “ When one says that, one says 
everything.” 

She looked slowly round, as if challenging contradiction, 
but no one answered. 

The tenants of Queen’s Quadrangles were condemned. 


60 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


THE GREEN TUNNEL 

F rances and Dolores Eliot were pariahs, but they 
were not unhappy. Who could be unhappy at a place 
so glorious as Queen’s Quadrangles.? Not such lovers 
of beauty as the Eliots, mother and daughter. Nevertheless, 
it was a disappointment, a blank, bitter disappointment to 
Frances that no one should call upon her. And she could not 
understand it at all. 

At first, she had been lost in the passionate enjoyment of 
“ settling in,” and she had been glad that people were con- 
siderate enough to wait until that process was satisfactorily 
finished. 

Timidly she had asked Lady Rosamund’s permission to 
have some of the shabbiest furniture coverings and hangings 
removed in favor of new ones to be paid for by herself ; and 
Lady Rosamund had said that, as she had taken the house 
for a term of years, she must consider herself free to do what 
would make her feel most at home. So Frances had had the 
delight of choosing copies of old damasks and brocades; 
though to be accurate, it was Dolores who chose, and she who 
agreed to the choice; the child had such a wonderful eye for 
color and harmoniousness. Horses and carriages had to be 
provided, too, and new servants got for outdoors and in. Alto- 
gether, there was a fortnight of delicious excitement, during 

61 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


which Frances missed nothing, but then—came a period of 
waiting and doubt. 

The first Sunday, Frances did not go to church, nr let Do- 
lores go. They were tired after a hard though pleasurable 
week of work, and Frances secretly wished to be looking her 
best when the eyes of the county and the neighborhood first 
fell upon her. Besides, with a kind of innocent vanity, she en- 
joyed the thought of the disappointment which would surely 
be felt when the people, who must have been eagerly expect- 
ing to see what the newcomers were like, found that their 
curiosity was not to be immediately satisfied. 

The next Sunday they did go, however, sitting in the pew 
which had belonged for many generations to the Vane-Eliots 
of Queen’s Quadrangles. It was theirs by right now, and all 
Frances’s pride in her husband’s race was satisfied as she and 
Dolores reposed in it alone. Of course, she had asked Lady 
Rosamund to “ please sit there just as usual,” but Lady Rosa- 
mund quietly answered that of late she did not go to church. 
And perhaps Frances had not been sorry, for she was never 
quite at ease with Lady Rosamund, she could not have told 
why. 

After that Sunday, Mrs. Eliot made excuses to do her 
driving or motoring or walking in the morning, that she 
might be at home to receive visitors, and she was critical about 
which of many white muslin dresses Dolores should wear. But 
no visitors appeared, and on the third Sunday in church the 
faces which had so interested her as being those of possible 
friends seemed to look hard and cold, the eyes to gaze through 
rather than at her, if hers inadvertently turned to question 
them. 

From doubt and wonder Frances Eliot’s feeling became 

62 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


pique. She tried not to care that all these people should 
ignore her and Dolores, as if they were creatures beneath 
notice; but the more she tried, the more she did care. She 
dreamed of her disappointment at night, and rankled under 
it by day, though she was too proud to speak of it to Lady 
Rosamund, whom she seldom saw unless by request, or when, 
in the capacity of housekeeper, the deposed sovereign asked 
the reigning queen if there were any special orders. 

Once or twice Frances was minded to say : “ Isn’t it the 
custom in this part of the country to call on new arrivals.? ” 
but in her shy, hurt pride she dreaded the change that might 
flit oA^er Lady Rosamund’s face — a look which would tell her 
that, for some reason, she was not considered desirable, even 
though the lips courteously alleged other reasons. So she did 
not speak, and never guessed that part of the sadness in Lady 
Rosamund’s eyes meant pity for her and a guilty conscience 
for having kept silence as to things which might well have 
prevented any tenant from coming to Queen’s Quadrangles. 

Still, Frances was not utterly cast down. She began so to 
love Queen’s Quadrangles that she said to herself, even if she 
had known how horrid and unsociable everyone was going to 
be, she would have taken the dear place just the same. And 
then, it was so good that people’s lack of politeness did not 
affect Dolores’s spirits. 

Most girls of nineteen, Frances reflected, would have been 
deadly dull without any young men in their lives, or any 
dances, or even so much as an occasional game of tennis. But 
Dolores did not seem even to be aware that she was missing 
anything. She spent hours in the gardens, or in the foun- 
tain court, which she loved, listening to the trickle of falling 
water, and watching the changing fire of sunset, or the sil- 

63 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

very moonlight turn the blowing plumes of spray to ruby or 
pearl. 

Dolores loved the lake, too, and the terraces where the 
haughty peacocks walked, and the old, old yew arbors, and the 
Italian pergolas curtained with roses. She asked Frances to 
buy her a canoe, and it gave her mother a wistful kind of 
pleasure to see the girl’s grace as she manipulated it in the 
clear sheet of water where reflections were as real as realities — 
wistful, because of her own vanishing youth, and because 
Dolores seemed to her so beautiful that she could scarcely bear 
to have no one else to see her thus. 

There was the library, too; and on rainy days Dolores 
could scarcely be persuaded to come out of the noble old room 
with its rows upon rows of wonderful books, its high-carved 
ceiling, and its great latticed windows with deep, cushioned 
seats. The girl appeared to forget that her mother had 
counted upon entertaining the neighborhood and on being en- 
tertained by it in return ; or if she did not forget, neither 
did she repine that English customs were apparently differ- 
ent from what they had supposed. She was perfectly happy, 
bathed in the enchantment of romance and poetry which made 
music for her in every corner of the old house and stately 
gardens ; and seeing her so radiant Frances could not be mis- 
erable. 

This was the state of things at Queen’s Quadrangles at the 
time of Lady Chilford’s dinner party, when the Eliots had 
been in Surrey for a month. But Dolores, at least, was not 
quite without friends. She was on the best of terms with sev- 
eral children who smiled at her from inside cottage gates, as 
she walked to the village, which she loved to do for the sake 
of exercise, and for the joy of coming back to Queen’s Quad- 

641 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


rangles after a short absence. Also she had scraped acquaint- 
ance with a fascinating old hero of the Crimea who sat, cov- 
ered with medals and gnarled with rheumatism, always on 
the same seat, under a huge oak on the village green; and 
she had often a pleasant chat with Mrs. Still, who kept the 
post office. The old soldier and the postmistress were very 
agreeable persons, with respectful manners which struck the 
American girl as extraordinary in people of their class; but 
she thought it rather odd that they invariably became re- 
served, or changed the subject if she happened to mention 
Queen’s Quadranges. Perhaps — it occurred to her one day — 
this was because the people of the neighborhood resented for- 
eigners living in a house which had for so long been the home 
of an old family, known to everyone. 

This idea depressed her a little, and she was not half as 
happy as she had been a few minutes ago, about the dolls she 
had just bought for the two cottage children. 

It was beginning to rain, and she had no umbrella, for the 
sun had been shining when she started. From a few heavy 
drops it soon became a downpour, and as she was already half 
a mile out of the village, with quite half a mile to go still 
before reaching her little friends’ cottage, Dolores took shel- 
ter under a big beech tree. 

This was not the main road, but a short cut between the 
cottages, and also to one of the gates at Queen’s Quadrangles. 
Indeed, it was more like a lane than a road, so narrow was the 
winding way, hollowed out between high banks, green with 
bracken and starred with tiny pink and blue wild flowers. So 
vastly generous were the beeches and chestnuts interweaving 
their branches overhead that the road was like a tunnel cut 
out of greenery and filled with a mysterious light that might 

65 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


have filtered through emeralds. There was not much danger 
of getting wet in that green tunnel, but at the top of the 
hill the road opened out between meadows, so Dolores made 
up her mind to wait in safety where she was. The sound of 
the rain on the thick leaves far above her head was as the 
tinkling fall of crystal beads, and as she looked up it was like 
looking up to the dome of a vast, green-roofed temple. The 
rain brought out delicious scents of clover and new-cut grass, 
and the bitter-sweet smell of bracken. Above, the birds called 
cozily to each other from nests sheltered under leaves, and 
Dolores, with lifted chin, could see their family life going on, 
undisturbed by her presence. 

“ At least,” she said to herself, “ the birds don’t hate me, 
or mind my being here. They don’t think of me as a ‘ for- 
eigner.’ ” 

As she stood, gathering together her frilly white muslin, 
she was almost opposite the gate of a quaint cottage house 
which she had always admired when she passed this way. It 
was of brick, well-mellowed by age, with lovely pinks and 
grays, and purples, and it had black oak beams which divided 
the walls into squares. There was a porch of oak rather like 
the porch of an old country church, with a seat on either side, 
and over its pointed gable poured cascades of white and purple 
clematis, tangled inextricably with honeysuckle. The dainty 
white muslin curtains in the diamond-paned windows, the 
charmingly kept lawn shaded by ancient yews and a copper 
beech or two, the hydrangeas in tubs where the old brick path 
mounted in two steps toward the house, all seemed to show 
that the cottage was occupied by gentlefolk ; and once or twice 
as Dolores passed, she had caught through the rose-bowered 
arch of the rustic gateway glimpses of two little old ladies 

66 


CHAPTER SEVEN 

in mushroom hats, flitting about with garden scissors. The 
lawn and garden were deserted now, and the tall lilies were 
trembling under the onslaught of crystal spears of rain. On 
one of the porch seats, cuddled well under shelter, sat a large 
black Persian cat whose eyes, yellow and round as gold sov- 
ereigns set in ebony, stared uncompromisingly from a distance 
at the white figure of the girl just visible through the gate. 
Then suddenly, patter, patter, along the shady road came a 
sopping wet spaniel, who ran to the closed gate and peered 
in at the cat, shaking off raindrops and wagging his wet 
tail. 

The cat sprang up and arched its back, while the dog 
pushed with his long nose against the gate. The latch, it 
seemed, was not firmly fastened, and dreading tragedy, Do- 
lores hastily called the spaniel, at the same time starting for- 
ward to catch him by the collar should he pay no heed. 

But she need not have feared his neglect. At the sound of 
her voice the dog instantly turned, and running toward her 
would have signified extreme delight in making her acquaint- 
ance, by jumping with muddy forepaws upon her dress, if 
a peremptory whistle had not reduced him to abject apology. 

Dolores looked round, and saw a young man walking 
quickly toward her along the green tunnel. At sight of her, 
with the abashed dog waggling at her feet, he took off his 
hat, walking more briskly. 

“ I do hope Toddles hasn’t pawed you, and muddied your 
frock,” he said, looking at the face of the girl and not at 
the frock. 

“ Oh, no, and if he had, it wouldn’t have mattered. He’s a 
dear fellow,” replied Dolores, with her pleasant American 
frankness. The nice voice and clear-featured, though not 

67 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

handsome face, told her that the man was a gentleman. “ I 
think it’s very kind of your dog to want to make friends 
with me.” 

St. John de Grey thought the wish did credit to the ani- 
mal’s intelligence. Thi^ was the first time he had seen Dolores 
(it was only two days after the Chilford dinner), but he was 
sure from Mrs. Calendar’s description that she must be the 
American girl whose mother had taken Queen’s Quadrangles. 
She was so — almost pathetically pretty, he said to himself, 
after hesitating for an adjective, that no wonder even that 
dry-as-dust woman had been forced to pay the lovely young 
creature grudging tribute. As for her eyes, they certainly 
were very large, but not at all too large, as Mrs. Calendar 
had said. They were, on the contrary, exactly right ; and seen 
in this green twilight under the trees they had the most ex- 
traordinary luminous effect, as they looked up to him out of 
the pearl-pale face — those great dark eyes, soft as a fawn’s. 
He would have liked to shake his sister, and all the other 
women. Suddenly he had a very strong, almost violent desire 
to do something kind for this girl, something that she would 
remember. He was nearly thirty, and he had met a great 
many pretty girls, many of whom had been rather too nice to 
him for his own good ; but — prepared already perhaps by the 
talk at the dinner-table — he was moved in a moment to a 
romantically chivalrous impulse toward this young slip of a 
thing in white muslin. 

“ You’ve no umbrella,” he remarked with more of solicitude 
than originality. 

“ Neither have you,” Dolores smiled. 

“ That doesn’t matter — any more than for Toddles. Be- 
sides, I’m going to Turk’s Cottage, to a tea-party given es- 

68 


CHAPTER SEVEN 

pecially for me. Of course you must know Miss Greenleaf 
and Miss Peachy? ” 

‘‘ No,” said Dolores. 

“ Then you ought to.” 

She smiled again. And when she smiled a little round dim- 
ple came in each of the cheeks, which were faintly pink now. 

‘‘ Ought I? But it doesn’t seem for me to choose.” 

“ Oh, yes, it is,” insisted De Grey, with sudden inspiration. 

Everybody knows Miss Greenleaf and Miss Peachy.” 

“ What nice names ! ” said Dolores evasively. 

“ Just right for their owners. They’re twins, you see, and 
as alike as two sweet peas. Look here, they’d be miserable if 
they knew you were outside getting soaked. Do come in and 
shelter in their house till the rain’s over. They’ll be delighted 
to have you. And, anyhow, it’s my tea-party. Ever since I 
used to visit them as a young savage from Eton, they’ve 
always allowed me to invite my own guests.” 

“ But I’m not getting soaked,” the girl assured him. “ I 
like being here. It’s lovely. Please go in and don’t mind about 
me. In a few minutes the rain will stop.” 

“ I’ll go in, but Miss Greenleaf will certainly send out to 
beg you to come in when she hears ” 

“ Don’t tell her ! ” Dolores begged. 

“ I can’t promise that,” said De Grey, opening the gate, 
while Toddles, following slowly, looked an apology to his new 
friend. 


' 69 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


THE EITTLE LADIES OF TURk’s COTTAGE 

D olores tried to hope that nothing of what the man 
prophesied would happen; and she even thought of 
hurrying away, rather than that the ladies of Turk’s 
Cottage should feel constrained to invite her in. But it really 
was raining very hard now. Beyond the green tunnel the glit- 
tering downpour was like a waving screen of spun glass. And 
she thought of the two trim little figures she had seen flitting 
about the garden. It would he nice to know what kind of faces 
the big mushroom hats had hidden. “ Miss Greenleaf and 
Miss Peachy ! ” Ladies with names as quaint as that couldn’t 
be stiff, English creatures with cold-boiled-gooseberry eyes 
and formidable stick-out teeth, like some middle-aged women 
she had noticed at church, or driving in and out of the village. 

Dolores saw the young man rescue the black cat from Tod- 
dles’s excited advances, by lifting it to his shoulder. She saw 
him order the spaniel to lie down in the porch; and then she 
heard the distant tapping of the old iron knocker on the 
black oak door. Almost instantly the door was thrown open ; 
and three minutes had not passed after the young man’s dis- 
appearance into the house when he appeared again putting 
up an umbrella over the neatly capped head of a little old 
lady. He tried to shelter his companion down the brick path 
which led to the gate, but she stepped briskly ahead of him 
and out into the road. 


70 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


“ My dear child ! ” she exclaimed. “ The idea of your 
standing here in the wet, instead of running into our house. 
What do you mean by it? Now, come in and have some tea. 
I’m Miss Greenleaf, Poppy Greenleaf.” 

She took Dolores by the hand with her little old one, that 
was still fine and pretty, and led the girl, unresisting, under 
the rustic arch where late roses dripped perfumed raindrops 
on faces and lashes. 

On the other side of the door, Dolores could not help cry- 
ing out with delight. They entered a low, square hall or liv- 
ing room, with great rough beams of oak running across the 
ceiling and plastered wall. At the back was a stairway and 
a glass door that opened onto a lawn under laden apple trees. 
There was a huge red-bricked fireplace, with brass warming 
pans hanging inside ; and close to an old-fashioned settle was 
drawn a little gate-legged table with a tea tray on it. On 
the tray was some dainty old silver, and teacups of willow- 
pattern ware. In a corner stood a big grandfather clock with 
a half moon peering over the white top of its face ; and there 
were old portraits, old china, and .old easy chairs covered with 
faded, pretty old chintz. In the hall, though the windows 
were open to the fresh air, there was a scent of lavender and 
of potpourri, mingling deliciously with a vague, spicy smell 
as if from an adjacent store cupboard. 

“ This is my sister Peachy,” announced Miss Greenleaf, as 
another little old lady who had been hovering near the door 
came smilingly yet timidly forward. “ She didn’t dare to run 
and fetch you in, though she would have liked to. I’m the 
brave one of this family. Dear me, I’m sure I don’t know what 
Peachy and her little maid Lauretta — we have but one — 
would do if I weren’t as brave as I am! Now, sit down and 

71 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


drink some hot tea, my dear. Peachy was just going to make 
it. I always let her make the tea, both for breakfast and in 
the afternoon. That’s my way of showing my superiority of 
age. Quite ten minutes. I believe it was, though she tries to 
make it out eight, whenever she wants to lord it over me.” 

It was true that they were “ alike as two sweet peas,” these 
elderly twins, these little creatures as dainty as their Queen 
Anne silver, as prettily faded as their own chintz, and bits of 
decorative brocade on shelf and table. The only perceptible 
difference was, that Miss Poppy wore a cap and gold-rimmed 
spectacles, while Miss Peachy’s white hair was adorned by a 
mere rosette of lace and ribbon, and she had smart eyeglasses 
which pinched her little nose. Perhaps, too. Miss Peachy had 
a fresher color than her sister, a true, peachy bloom which 
made her name appropriate, while Miss Poppy’s soft cheeks 
had only a little, deep-pink stain on either cheek bone, as if 
a sharp tap had been bestowed on each. Both sisters had 
faded, forget-me-not blue eyes. Miss Poppy’s with a quiet 
gleam of humor which now and then turned them steel gray 
behind their spectacles; Miss Peachy’s with a gentle, child- 
like outlook on life, a lingering of youth’s romantic dreams, 
never fulfilled. 

Dolores’s heart went out to the two at once, and she wished 
that she might kiss them. She thought that, if she wanted 
advice, she would like best to seek Miss Poppy ; if she wanted 
sympathy, she would rather run to Miss Peachy. 

‘‘ How kind you are ! ” she exclaimed, feeling suddenly gay 
and light-hearted, as if she had come home to friends after a 
long absence. “ Why, you don’t even know who I am, and yet 
you’ve invited me to tea ! ” 

“We do know who you are. That is, we know from Captain 

7 ^ 


CHAPTER EIGHT 

de Grey that you come from — we know where you live,” said 
Miss Poppy. 

“ But we should have wanted to invite you to tea just the 
same, if we didn’t know,” put in Miss Peachy warmly. 
“ We’re so pleased to have you. We’ve often seen you go past, 
and wished we might ask you to drop in and chat with us.” 

“ Though, when we come to think of it, why should a young 
thing like you care to be bothered chatting with old things 
like us ? ” her eldest sister cut her short. 

Miss Peachy tossed her neat little head under its smart 
rosette of ribbon, and pursed her pink lips, as much as to 
say “ Speak for yourself, my dear.” That made Miss Poppy 
laugh, and hint mischievously that perhaps now and then 
Peachy wished there had been fifteen minutes’ difference be- 
tween them, instead of ten. Then they gave each other’s 
pretty old hands little patting slaps, and Miss Peachy poured 
boiling water into the Queen Anne teapot which instantly sent 
forth a delicious fragrance. 

“ My dear sir,” said Miss Poppy to the young man, with 
all the politeness of a female Boswell to a Johnson, “ My dear 
sir, have the obligingness to ring the bell, and Lauretta will 
bring in the hot tea cakes.” 

“When are you going to begin calling me St. John.^” 
asked her guest as he sprang up to obey her bidding. 
“ You’ve known me for over fourteen years.” 

“ Indeed, we wouldn’t be so wanting in respect to one of 
his Majesty’s officers, and such a distinguished one at that,” 
both sisters answered together, almost in a breath. Already 
Dolores began to see that the likeness in their features ex- 
tended to their thoughts, although Miss Poppy felt bound to 
keep up the dignity of the elder sister. 

73 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ Even though you knew me first when I was in an Eton 
jacket? ” 

“ Even then, you were already the brother-in-law of the 
vicar.” 

St. John de Grey burst out laughing. “ Miss Poppy, 
you’re the most obstinate woman alive,” he said. “ But any- 
how, in a way you’ve introduced me to — to ” 

Miss Peachy gave a little girlish giggle, as if taken with 
the romance of the situation, “ Dear me, I suppose neither of 
you know the other’s name yet? ” she exclaimed. “ And now 
I come to think of it, neither do we know ” 

“ My name is Dolores Eliot,” said the girl. 

‘‘ Eliot ! ” the two sisters looked at each other. 

“ Then you are — ” went on Miss Peachy impulsively, but 
Miss Poppy checked her with a glance. 

Dolores guessed what the little lady had been on the point 
of saying, and did not see why she might not answer the 
broken question. 

“ Related to Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot ? ” she asked. 
“We don’t know. My father was English, though he lived 
in America for many years; long before I was born, even; 
and that was one reason why mother and I wanted to come and 
stay over here; father used to talk so much about England. 
But when we took it, we didn’t know that Queen’s Quadran- 
gles belonged to people with a name like ours. It was only a 
coincidence ; and we haven’t found out since whether the fami- 
lies were related, though we should like to, of course.” 

“ Yes — very interesting, but here comes Lauretta with the 
tea cakes,” said Miss Poppy hastily. Then both sisters fussed 
about the arrangement of plates with thin bread and butter, 
and plum cake (such as schoolboys love) to make room for 

74 ' 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


the covered dish brought in by a becapped maid, who looked 
as if born especially to wait upon such mistresses. She was 
plump and rosy, with a face shining with soap, and every- 
thing she had on rattled with starch as she walked. She 
smiled modestly, and ducked a curtsey to Captain the Hon. 
St. John de Grey, when she had safely set down the tea cakes, 
then shot shyly out of the room with a rustle as of autumn 
leaves. 

Hardly had she gone when there was a sound of trotting 
hoofs that stopped at the gate two dozen yards away; and 
St. John, with the silver cover of the tea cake dish in his 
hand, peeped with the guilty curiosity of a schoolboy between 
the half-drawn muslin curtains. 

“ It’s Mrs. Calendar,” he announced, with a falling face. 
“ In the midst of my tea party ! CanH you be out.? ” 

“ Oh, no, we couldn’t, I’m afraid,” piped the sisters, their 
merriment gone. “ It wouldn’t be safe. Besides, here we are, 
in the hall.” 

“Let’s bolt into the kitchen,” proposed St. John. 

“ There’d be the tea things to betray us — and our cups 
full, too,” said Miss Peachy, tempted, yet resisting. 

“ Her footman is knocking. It’s too late to do anything 
now, even if we would’^ sighed Miss Poppy. And Dolores, 
seeing the flutter of dismay in the dovecote, was disconcerted 
in sympathy. 

Lauretta heard the summons, and popped in again, to an- 
swer the door. But the smart servant could see for himself 
that the ladies were at home ; and in another moment a stately 
figure was being obsequiously led up the path under an um- 
brella of precisely the right size to shelter the mistress and 
drip on the footman’s respectful shoulder. 

75 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


With an air of gracious condescension which Dolores felt 
by a quick instinct, the visitor sailed into the cottage room 
and seemed immediately to dwarf it. She was handsomely 
dressed, though without much taste or any distinction. Her 
drab hair was done after the fashion most approved by Eng- 
lish royalties; but the kindly manner of royalty was not 
grand enough for the lady’s imitation. Her smile, her hand- 
shake, patronized Miss Greenleaf and Miss Peachy in turn, 
and the change in her voice when addressing De Grey in the 
friendly tone of an equal, emphasized her condescension to her 
hostesses, as she no doubt intended. Last of all, as she ac- 
cepted a chair, she looked at Dolores through the lorgnettes 
for which the near-sightedness of her prominent eyes offered 
some excuse. 

She would drink no tea, thanks, she said. Having just 
come from calling on dear Lady Chilford, and passing this 
way in her carriage she thought she would stop ; but really it 
must be only for a moment. How glad she was to see Captain 
de Grey ! Had he heard that Lord Tillingbourne was ex- 
pected back home soon, on leave Lady Chilford had had the 
news from the dear duke. Such a charming young man. Lord 
Tillingbourne, though not literary, like his father. Didn’t 
Captain de Grey think him fascinating.^ Quite an ornament 
to the Life Guards. 

“To tell the truth, I’ve always thought him rather a 
young beast,” replied St. John calmly. 

Mrs. Calendar looked surprised and a little shocked. In 
the bright lexicon of her youth, and the dull one of her middle 
age, there was no such word as beast in connection with the 
heir to a dukedom. But Captain de Grey was the younger 
son of an earl, and though poor, still not a person to be vexed 

76 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


with, so she laughed ; and then, in the slight pause which fol- 
lowed, gazed again at Dolores through her lorgnettes. 

“ I’m so near-sighted,” she said, ‘‘ and the room is — er — a 
little dark, owing to its — er — quite delightfully quaint low 
ceiling, therefore I’m not sure if I’ve failed to recognize some 
acquaintance — a pupil of yours, perhaps. Miss Peachy ? ” 

“ Miss Peachy has given up taking pupils and retired on 
her laurels these five years — before you came into this part 
of the world, Mrs. Calendar,” said St. John, who knew well 
that the lady’s short sight and short memory were both partly 
assumed when convenient. She recognized the girl, he had 
no doubt, for had she not already described the fair face, with 
the great dark eyes which in her opinion were too big for it? 

“ Oh — er, of course — how stupid of me,” murmured Mrs. 
Calendar. 

“ This is Miss Eliot, who is, I hope, going to be a friend 
of ours,” said Miss Poppy, a steely twinkle of amusement 
behind her glasses. She understood perfectly that Mrs. Cal- 
endar, rich and self-important, a newcomer in an old neigh- 
borhood, patronized her and her sister with conscious virtue. 
The woman really thought that she was particularly nice to 
call in a friendly way on people who lived in a cottage not 
much better than an abode for peasants. But Miss Poppy’s 
sense of humor and Miss Peachy’s childlike gentleness pre- 
served them from resentment. It rather amused Miss Poppy 
that Mrs. Calendar should be so pleased with the gorgeous 
new suites of furniture from Waring’s & Maple’s in her own 
fine new house, as to despise their Cromwellian and Jacobean 
treasures, their cottage as old as the Crusaders. 

“ Miss Eliot ? ” repeated Mrs. Calendar. ‘‘ Ah, I — er — I 
don’t think, after all, that ” 


77 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ I live at Queen’s Quadrangles,” said Dolores simply. But 
she waited with half-shy interest to see whether this lady with 
the lorgnettes and important-looking teeth would instantly 
turn from the subject, as everybody else seemed to do, even 
the Miss Greenleafs. 

Mrs. Calendar, however, showed no such desire: rather the 
contrary, though she had no intention of betraying openly an 
emotion so vulgar as curiosity. 

Indeed? We heard that the place was let,” she remarked, 
her pale eyes brightening a little. “ You must find it dread- 
fully dull there.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” cried Dolores. “We never think of being dull. 
It is so beautiful. I am happy all day long.” 

“ What about the nights? ” suggested Mrs. Calendar, still 
making use of her lorgnettes. “ I should think you would be 
terrified. I’m sure I should be, to sleep in that house.” 

“ Why ? ” asked the girl, her eyes wide with surprise. 

“ Of course, one doesn’t exactly believe in ghosts, but ” 

“ Mrs. Calendar, do change your mind and take some tea. 
Is it two lumps of sugar or only one? I’m ashamed of myself 
not to remember,” broke in Miss Greenleaf. 

“No tea, thank you. But, as I was saying, there must 
really be something odd about Queen’s Quadrangles. I sup- 
pose you’ve never seen or heard ” 

“ This is the cake that Miss Poppy always has made 
especially for me, when I write her that I’m coming down to 
Clere,” said St. John, handing a plate. “ I recommend it.” 

“ Thanks, no cake — nothing at all.” 

“ Do you mean that Queen’s Quadrangles is supposed to be 
haunted? ” asked Dolores. “ I should like that, for I’m sure 
there would be only handsome, polite ghosts about the house 

78 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


if they were family ones and looked like the portraits. I don’t 
think I should be at all afraid to meet one.” 

“ I should be afraid to say that, if I were you, for fear of 
a judgment,” said Mrs. Calendar. “ I don’t know what the 
family ghosts at Queen’s Quadrangles may have been hke in 
the past^ but those of the present day are hardly ” 

“We have a ghost ourselves,” Miss Peachy ventured to 
interrupt, all in a flutter. “ The ghost of the Turk, you 
know. I dare sa}’^ Miss Eliot hasn’t heard that this cottage is 
named after a Turk who came over as a servant with a Sir 
Somebody Vane, a great traveler.? He gave the man this cot- 
tage when he retired.” 

“ I’m afraid I should resent a servants ghost making free 
of my house,” remarked Mrs. Calendar. “ Such a liberty ! 
But tell me. Miss — er — Eliot, in your explorations have you 
ever come across any trace of the Lost Court ? ” 

“ No,” said Dolores. “ I don’t believe there ever Was 
another court. Or if there was, the whole house must have 
been altered entirely since. It’s all made in exact proportion, 
as if to fit the only two there are now — the cypress court and 
the fountain court.” 

“ Well, at any rate, there must be something very queer 
about the place, apart from its — er — misfortunes.” Mrs. 
Calendar persisted : “ Of course, Fve never been there. My 
husband and I only built our house about four years ago. But 
my maid is a distant relation of the old housekeeper at Queen’s 
Quadrangles, and I believe goes to see her sometimes, though 
from all I can understand, she doesn’t seem to get a particu- 
larly warm welcome. However, she gains the impression of 
mystery. I should say, at least, that the house is simply 
honeycombed with secret rooms and passages. If I were you, 

79 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


Miss Eliot, I should be careful that there was nothing of the 
sort opening out of my room. That would be disagreeable ! ” 

“ I’m not afraid ! ” laughed Dolores. “ I only wish there 
were such things. I’d give anything to find a secret door some- 
where, perhaps with a wonderful story about it. Perhaps I 
shall ask Lady Rosamund some day to tell me if there are 
any very exciting old family histories.” 

“ Oh, my dear, I wouldnH — I wouldn’t ask her that ! ” 
cried Miss Peachy. 

‘‘ Miss Eliot doesn’t mean it, sister,” said Miss Poppy. 
“ She is only joking.” 

Dolores flushed faintly, and St. John de Grey thought her 
even prettier with a bright color than she had been when 
snowdrop pale in the green light of the tunnel under the trees. 
The girl had not been joking. On hearing Mrs. Calendar’s 
vague hints, her impulse had been to go straight to Lady 
Rosamund, with whom she felt little of that shy restraint 
which oppressed Frances. Lady Rosamund, whenever they 
met — which was not often — was always very kind and gentle 
with her. Perhaps she understood that the girl admired her 
intensely, and as it was a long time since she had known the 
sweet incense of strangers’ admiration, it might be that she 
had a warm place in her heart for this young tenant of hers, 
whose large eyes lingered upon her face as if it were a beau- 
tiful picture. 

Dolores really had thought that she might ask Lady Rosa- 
mund for old stories of Queen’s Quadrangles, and had even 
fancied Lady Rosamund might enjoy telling them, as it was 
evident that her whole heart was centered in the place. Other- 
wise, why did she stay on there in such an unsuitable, subordi- 
nate position? The girl had not heard her mother question 

80 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


Lady Rosamund about the lost court, and though Frances 
had more than once remembered the look on her strange 
housekeeper’s face, she had been true to her resolution not to 
mention the little episode to Dolores. 

Now, when gentle Miss Peachy made her quick protest, the 
girl felt ashamed, as if she had suggested doing something 
in bad taste, and she was vexed with herself for not being 
delicate-minded enough to recognize this bad taste, without 
having it thus impressed upon her. 

“ I won’t say anything to Lady Rosamund,” she assured 
Miss Greenleaf and Miss Peachy. And then, the rain being 
over, she rose to go. 

“ Thank you both so very milch for having me,” she said 
childishly, shaking hands first with one and then with the 
other. 

In one breath, as was their way of talking, the two old 
ladies impressed upon her the pleasure they had felt, and 
hoped that she would find time to “ drop in ” on them when- 
ever she was passing. 

“ I should love to,” said Dolores. Then, hesitating a little 
— “ And — and my mother. She would so like to know you, I’m 
sure. Could you — would you mind the trouble of coming to 
see her some day.?^ ” 

Both Miss Greenleaf and Miss Peachy grew pink to the 
roots of their white hair. “ We — we are so very sorry,” they 
faltered, “ but it’s a long way for us. We’re not young, you 
know, and ” 

“ But mother would send the motor or a carriage for you, 
whichever you liked,” pleaded Dolores eagerly. “ And you 
would come to tea. We’d have it in the long pergola, or in 
the fountain court ” 


81 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

“ Dear child,” said Miss Greenleaf, lowering her voice as 
she led the girl toward the door, “ indeed, indeed we should 
have been delighted, if it had been possible, but it isn’t — it 
isn’t. Only, if you think Mrs. Eliot would come to us, I would 
with so much pleasure write a note and invite her. But we are 
two very unimportant little women. She mightn’t care to be 
bothered with us.” 

Dolores, vaguely saddened and puzzled, protested against 
this idea, and at last, after bidding Mrs. Calendar a polite 
good-by, got out of the room. St. John de Grey went with 
her to open the gate, the latch of which, he announced, was 
very stiff. 

“ Do you think Mrs. Eliot would let me call on her.'^ ” he 
asked. 

Dolores looked up at him with a frank gaze. “ Of course 
she would be pleased. But — ” the girl hesitated — “ I wish 
you would tell me something. Is everyone about here preju- 
diced against Americans ” 

St. John hastened to reply that there was no feeling of 
that sort — quite the contrary, indeed. 

“ Then — is it that they don’t like strange, new people com- 
ing to live in a dear old place like Queen’s Quadrangles 
Even the Miss Greenleaf s, you see ” 

“ No, no, I don’t see, for it isn’t at all as you seem to 
think,” the young man broke in, touched as well as flattered 
at this sign of confidence in him. ‘‘ I know what’s in your 
thoughts. But it isn’t your being Americans or strangers that 
keeps people away. It’s — it’s ” 

“ Please explain to me what. You can’t stop now.” 

“ Why, it’s the house , said St. John. 

“ The house.? ” 


82 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


“ Really, I’m afraid I can’t explain any more. Only, if 
you’d taken any other house, it would — it would be altogether 
different.” 

Dolores flushed, as if she had heard an unkind word spoken 
of some friend. “ I’d rather have that dear house than all the 
new acquaintances in the world,” she said proudly. “ I shan’t 
mind now, even for mother’s sake, who comes or stops away. 
Good-by. And thank you for — opening the gate.” 

Then she was gone, leaving St. John de Grey looking after 
her. 

“ I don’t care,” he said to himself. “ I will go. And so 
shall Jim — and Ermyntrude, too.” 


83 


CHAPTER NINE 


THE MAN IN THE GONDOLA 

M ost young girls, unless they are in love, fall asleep 
when they go to bed and wake up when they are 
called. But Dolores Eliot often had wakeful hours. 
Thoughts visited her at night which never came at any other 
time. She had only to leave the door of her mind open and 
in they trooped, more beautiful and wonderful than any 
dream. She could not have told these fancies to anybody she 
had ever seen yet, not even to her mother ; but now and then 
she had a dim longing for some one who might have the same 
kind of thoughts. 

Such a some one seemed possible only when imagined by 
night, in still, sweet hours when you had but to wish for a 
thing to make it credible. 

The night after Dolores’s visit to Turk’s Cottage the 
weather had cleared after the showers, and the moon rode 
among a few high, white clouds. Until now, each night of this 
second moon since the Eliots had known Queen’s Quadrangles 
the sky had been overcast, and Dolores had been cheated of 
that vision of mysterious beauty which was her first memory 
of the place. She had been waiting for it, hoping for it, and 
now it had come. 

Her mother and sht; had bidden each other good-night at 
ten o’clock, and no doubt half an hour later Frances was in 
bed, the white glory of the night carefully shut out by drawn 

84 


CHAPTER NINE 


window curtains lest the moon, staring in, should give wild 
dreams. But Dolores, who never needed or wished for a maid’s 
services at night, curled herself up in a deep window seat as 
soon as she had slipped on a wrapper and shaken down the 
thick dark veil of her hair over her shoulders. 

She had put out the lamp, and the two long candles in old 
silver candlesticks, which lighted her dressing-table; but the 
evening had been cool, and a log or two of wood glowed cozily 
in the deep fireplace. The girl felt a sensuous pleasure in the 
picture of which she was the central figure. Not in the whole 
world could there be one more beautiful, she thought, so it 
was a great privilege to be in it; and she was glad to think 
that she was pretty, too. Not to be pretty would be to make 
a jarring note, and Dolores could not bear jarring notes. 

Curled up among cushions in the window seat she could see 
a dim reflection of herself in a long mirror across the room: 
a slim white thing, dreamlike, with a shadow cloak of dark 
hair, and eyes that gleamed when the logs in the flreplace gave 
out a sudden flame. 

Rose red flashed wavering gleams on the white and black 
of the oak-beamed walls and ceiling, when that flame burned ; 
while outside the open windows the landscape, bathed in floods 
of moonlight, was a pale, silvered lilac in contrast to the glow 
within. 

Dolores had chosen her corner in the window seat so that 
she could see the lake, luminous as a mirror, laid on a cushion 
of puiple velvet. She wished that she had the courage to steal 
downstairs in her warm dressing gown of white cashmere, un- 
fasten the canoe, and go out on the water. It would be a 
wonderful experience, and one that she could never forget. 

The only danger would be that by opening some door or 

85 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


window she might wake some one who would raise a silly 
alarm. That would be ignominious ; but if she were very care- 
ful to make no noise it was not likely that she would be heard. 
It was eleven o’clock now, and everybody in the great house 
was in bed and asleep, except perhaps Lady Rosamund, who 
often looked as if she passed wakeful nights. But luckily. 
Lady Rosamund’s windows did not look out on the lake. 

The idea of the poetic adventure she was planning for her- 
self began to fascinate Dolores. From where she sat she could 
see, gleaming pure white beneath the moon, a terrace of marble 
with steps going down to the lake. Under this terrace that 
had marble columns for supports — columns that glistened 
elusively through crystal depths of water — the new canoe was 
moored, and a poor, battered old Venetian gondola which had 
once been brave with carving of black and gold. 

It seemed now to Dolores, as she gazed through the bright 
haze of moonlight, that she could see the fantastic prow of 
this gondola, blacker than the shadows which lurked be- 
neath the marble terrace. Curiously enough, the dark shape 
seemed to stir, though there was no wind to break the clear 
mirror of the lake. Surprised, the girl turned her whole at- 
tention to the moving shadow, and could scarcely believe her 
eyes when the gondola suddenly swam out into full moonlight. 

In it was a standing figure, tall, slender, and graceful, as 
it dipped the long-handled oar; the figure of a man cut clear 
and black as a silhouette against the silver sheen of sky and 
water. 

Dolores, leaning out, half believed she must be dreaming, 
and that if she could wake up, she would find herself lying in 
bed. Still, what a vivid dream it was ! How sure she felt that 
she was wide awake, watching a real gondola propelled by a 

86 


CHAPTER NINE 


real gondolier across a wide expanse of moonlit lake. How 
perfect was every detail of the domain, down to the silver line 
drawn round the moving boat, and the scattered pearls which 
the oar strewed behind it. Yet she had known other dreams 
almost as real, from which she had waked up, dreams in the 
midst of which she had said to herself, “ This time I must be 
awake, and the strange thing I see is happening.” 

Quick as the lightning of Excalibur itself, flashed in her 
mind remembrance of a great poem, ‘‘ The Passing of Ar- 
thur.” She thought of the king rowing out across the bosom 
of the mere, to take the sword held to him by an arm clothed 
in white samite, mystic, wonderful. Almost she expected to 
see rise that arm, brandishing a thing that gleamed; almost 
she expected to see that tall figure, in the dusky barge ‘‘ dark 
as a funeral scarf from stem to stem,” bend and draw up the 
magic brand. Then, even as she looked, the long black shape 
of the gondola glided into the deep shadow that margined the 
sheet of water. If her eyes had not closely followed that shape 
in all its journey* out of light into darkness, they could 
scarcely have separated it from the dusk which had swallowed 
it up ; but, knowing the thing was there behind the veil of 
shadow, she could trace it as it moved, until at last the black 
blot it made was gone behind an island which grew up near 
the farthest shore. 

Dolores had forgotten, in watching the gondola, all about 
her wish to slip out of doors and paddle about on the lake in 
the moonlight. As the dark shape disappeared, she remem- 
bered, but she no longer had any desire to go. She slid down 
from the window seat, however, and began walking about the 
room. “ Now I know I must be awake ! ” she said to herself. 
“ It wasn’t a dream. There is a man out there on the water, 

87 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

in the old gondola. Who can he be, and what can he be 
doing? ” 

Could it be one of the servants? was the next thought that 
came to her; but one by one she passed in mental review all 
the men who were now employed about the place, indoors and 
out. There were two young footmen under old Soames ; and 
the elderly Scotch gardener and his son had been given three 
assistants. There was the chauffeur, and there were the 
coachman and two grooms, as well as a stable boy or two. But 
that tall slender figure which, as it slowly rowed the gondola, 
had seemed to her strong and graceful enough for King 
Arthur in his youth, was most surely not that of footman, 
coachman, groom, or gardener. As for the chauffeur, he was 
short, with round shoulders and unusually long arms. 

Of course, Dolores had to admit that the man might be a 
thief or a poacher: and perhaps this bare possibility was 
enough to kill all wish on her part to go out alone and be 
romantic in the moonlight. But there seemed no reason why 
any sensible thief or poacher should take a dilapidated gon- 
dola and set forth upon a slow, apparently aimless expedition 
on the lake. He could not reach by water any point which 
could not be gained more easily, more quickly, and perhaps less 
conspicuously by land. Besides, she did not believe that a 
man with a graceful w and of a figure like that would ever sink 
so low as to steal — for Dolores was stanch in the opinion 
that the nobler a man’s person, the finer must be the jewel his 
body incased — the soul. If she had been very ugly, she had 
often thought, there was no telling to what wicked things she 
might not have inclined, as a kind of revenge upon cruel 
nature, but if one were bom good to look upon, one’s actions 
must be good, so that one might live up to oneself, so to speak, 

88 


CHAPTER NINE 


and not break the harmony. She could not bear to think that 
that perfect form, which had seemed almost to be one in grace 
and mystery with the gliding gondola, could have been intent 
upon any bad deed, and she would not think it. But then — 
she did not know what to think. 

After she had walked excitedly about the room, touching . 
a familiar book or a bowl of cool-petaled flowers here and 
there, to assure herself that she was not really asleep in bed, 
she went back to the window. At first, she thought that the 
gondola had not yet come out from behind a clump of young 
willows on the little island; but when she had searched the 
wide line of shadow under the branching beeches and chest- 
nuts which cradled the far shore of the lake, her eyes caught 
the ghtter of water broken by an oar, a thin trail of crystal 
now and then, behind something dark that steadily moved on. 

Nothing would have induced Dolores to leave the window 
again after this discovery until she had given herself a chance 
to find out what the man meant to do. She would stay and 
watch, she told herself, all night if necessary ; and, indeed, it 
began to seem as if the mysterious gondolier knew that she 
was there, and had deliberately made up his mind to tire her 
out. In leisurely fashion he rowed to the end of tl^wall of 
trees, then turned, keeping in the shadow until he had reached 
the other end. Just where he would have to push out into 
the light if he had gone a foot farther, he wheeled once more 
to row along the path of darkness. Again and again he did 
this ; and Dolores realized that he had only ventured into the 
moonlight long enough to steer across from the marble ter- 
race, under which the gondola had been moored, to the shad- 
owed water road on the opposite side. 

It certainly did look, she could not help admitting, as if 

89 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


the man did not wish to be seen by anyone who might happen 
to be waking in the house. He had not begun this strange 
voyage of his until an hour when he must have seen, if he had 
looked, that all lights in the windows were extinguished, and 
even then he had run as little risk as possible before calling 
on darkness to swallow him up. 

If it were some eccentric stranger, moved by an irresistible 
desire for a moonlight row on the lake at Queen’s Quadran- 
gles, why had he not taken the smart new canoe instead of the 
poor old gondola .P The canoe was easy to manage for a com- 
parative amateur, whereas the manipulation of a gondola 
needed special knowledge, strength, and skill. Altogether, 
Dolores was completely puzzled ; but she did not lose patience. 
She kept her post, her eyes scarcely ever leaving the lake, 
until the moon had traveled far down lilac steeps of sky, and 
a grandfather clock on some far-away landing had chimed the 
hour after midnight. Then she was rewarded by seeing the 
gondola break through the shadow and steer across the lake 
(steel instead of silver now that the moon was sinking low) 
toward the marble terrace. 

“ He will tie up the gondola again, I suppose, and then I 
shall see him come up the steps,” thought Dolores, eagerly as 
the terrace was reached. “ He can’t go any other way, and I 
shall see what he does next. I should have seen him go down 
the steps if I’d been watching ; but this time I won’t move my 
eyes from the terrace, after he’s taken the gondola under- 
neath.” 

The old clock on the landing chimed another quarter hour, 
but no dark figure mounted the white steps. There was no 
other way up, for one who had put away a boat under that 
marble roof, and so the man must come, Dolores repeated to 

90 


CHAPTER NINE 


herself must come, by and by. But at last it was half an 
hour since he and the gondola had disappeared, and nothing 
had stirred in the shadow. 

Could he have swum away, or did he perhaps mean to sleep 
all night in the gondola Dolores would have given much to 
know, but even if she had dared to go down and try to solve 
the mystery of his movements and intentions, between the time 
of her leaving the window and again coming in sight of the 
lake and the terrace, the man might easily walk away. 

As she still looked and wondered, the moon sank behind the 
tall trees in the distant park, and darkness fell suddenly. 



91 


CHAPTER TEN 


LOVE AND GHOSTS 

D olores said nothing next day about what she had 
seen. 

It was rather a charming mystery, she thought, 
that seemed woven of moonlight and the Idylls of the King. 
It would spoil everything to talk of it to others who might 
believe she had had an “ optical illusion.” Besides, her mother 
would perhaps be frightened, and not having seen the poetic- 
ally graceful figure in the black gondola, might think, as she 
herself had so stupidly thought for an instant of thieves or 
other night marauders. There were more reasons, as well for 
being silent, and all seemed good to her. Dolores wanted to 
keep the mystery for her own a little while at least. She 
wanted to watch and see if the man came again to make 
another voyage on the lake. But she decided to begin watch- 
ing earlier, so that, if possible, she might learn the direction 
whence he came. 

Naturally, as soon as breakfast was over, and Frances had 
begun to write letters, the girl slipped away and went to the 
lake. 

The “ marble terrace,” as it was called, was no more than 
a very large platform extending for some distance along the 
water’s edge, and then jutting out over it, supported by pil- 
lars bearded with trails of moss and floating golden weeds. 
The terrace had a low railing of marble, on which stood great 

92 


CHAPTER TEN 


marble vases filled with flowering plants. And underneath the 
terrace were rings and chains for mooring boats. 

Dolores walked down the steps and out upon a small lower 
platform about two feet in width, by means of which the boats 
were reached. There was her canoe, floating light as a stray 
leaf on the clear green water; and there was the gondola. 

It looked just as it had looked on other days, shabby and 
sad, its gilding faded, its rich carvings chipped, and Dolores 
was vaguely disappointed. She had half expected to see a 
flower lying on the floor, or a dropped letter, or some other 
trace of last night’s occupant ; but there was nothing. Even 
the knot in the frayed rope, which moored the gondola to a 
rusty ring set in a big block of marble, seemed to the girl’s 
eyes precisely what it had been on other days. Yesterday, she 
reminded herself, she had said that she would like to see one 
of the ghosts of Queen’s Quadrangles. Could it be possible 
that she had seen a ghost? 

In the afternoon St. John de Grey called on Mrs. Eliot; 
and Frances, who had already found him in the peerage, re- 
ceived him pleasantly. He did not make up to her for sins 
of omission on the part of his relatives; but she had, for a 
woman, an unusually strong sense of justice, and she felt that 
it would not be fair to visit upon him the crimes of others. 
She did the honors of the old house prettily, yet there was 
a certain constraint in her manner which St. John understood. 
Toward the end of his visit, therefore, he boldly took the bull 
by the horns and grappled with the dilemma. 

“ My sister and brother-in-law have been wanting to call 
on you ever since you came,” he said. “ But — -well, the fact is, 
Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot hasn’t received anyone for a long 
time. Indeed, I think she made it pretty plain that she didn’t 

93 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


want people here. That’s why nobody seems to feel at liberty 
to call now, even though it’s different, of course, and in a 
way the house is yours.” 

“ Yet, you have come.'^ ” said Frances, smiling rather 
tremulously. 

“ I’m out of it all,” St. John explained. “ At the time of — 
the time when Lady Rosamund made up her mind that she 
wanted to be let alone, I was a ‘ sub ’ in India, where I’d just 
joined my first regiment. After that, I went to South Africa 
and had some fighting ; and since the war I’ve mostly been in 
Egypt. Now I’m supposed to be an invalid. Anyhow, I’m on 
sick leave, though I begin to feel pretty fit already. There’s 
nothing like this air.” ( He did not add that the improvement 
in his health was synonymous with a sudden increase of in- 
terest in life which he had begun to experience yesterday.) 
“ And then,” he went on, “ this was never home to me, so I 
wasn’t in any way identified with the interests of the neigh- 
borhood. I’ve come and gone, as a bird of passage, paying 
visits to my sister. Things that seem enormously important 
to people hereabouts don’t seem important to me at all.” 

“ I see,” said Frances. But she did not see ; she only groped 
in twilight. “ So Lady Rosamund quarreled with the county 
— years ago.^ I didn’t know that.” 

“ It wasn’t a quarrel,” said St. John. 

“ What was it, then.^ Can’t you tell me.? ” 

The young man hesitated. Dolores was at the other end 
of the lawn, throwing sticks into the lake for Troddles to 
retrieve. Still, he could not speak what was in his mind. “ I’m 
afraid you’ll think me rather an ass or a prig,” he stammered, 
“ if I say I don’t know how to tell you that. But I hope I’m 
not either one.” 


94j 


CHAPTER TEN 


“ Of course you’re not,” Frances returned, absent-mind- 
edly. “ I — suppose it was a scandal — of some kind? ” 

“ No, that’s not the word. It was — a tragedy. It isn’t 
for me to tell you — ^here, of all places. And yet — I think 
somebody ought to have told you.” 

“ You mean — Lady Rosamund? ” 

“ No — o. When one comes to think of it, that would have 
been almost impossible. J ove — no, she couldnH ! ” 

‘‘ The agent who let me the house ? ” Frances asked the 
question more of herself than her guest. “ Or, perhaps, he 
wouldn’t have known ? ” 

“ Yes, he must have known, I should think. Probably he 
felt it wasn’t his business to put you off the place. Lady 
Rosamund was his client.” 

“ So, if I’d known, it would have ‘ put me off ’ from taking 
Queen’s Quadrangles ? ” F ranees caught him up with a 
slight flush on her pale cheeks. “ Is the house haunted? ” 

“ Oh, it’s haunted right enough, if one’s superstitious,” 
said St. John, laughing uncomfortably. “ That’s nothing. 
All houses as old as this must be haunted. But ” 

Without their hearing her, Dolores had come up behind 
them. 

“ Are there men ghosts or women ghosts at Queen’s Quad- 
rangles ? ” she asked lightly, making them start. 

“ We didn’t know you’d come back, Lolita,” said Frances. 

“ Or you wouldn’t have talked about ghosts before the 
‘ child,’ ” she laughed. “ Oh, I know you wouldn’t ; but the 
mischief’s done now, so you may as well go on. I’m not afraid 
of Queen’s Quadrangles’s ghosts, for they’re sure to be gen- 
tlemen and ladies. Captain de Grey knows what I think 
already. Please tell me, is there a ghost of a tall young man, 

95 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


slender and graceful, with a proud way of holding his head, 
and good, straight shoulders ? ” 

St. John looked at her in surprise. ‘‘ Who has been telling 
you about him.? ” he blurted out, before he had stopped to 
think. 

“ Oh, then there is supposed to be such a ghost ! ” Dolores 
took the admission up quickly, with a flash of startled excite- 
ment in her eyes. 

St. J ohn tried to retrieve his mistake. “ I think I said yes- 
terday that I didn’t believe in ghosts.” 

“ I know. Still, if there were such beings, a man like the 
one I described might be likely to come back from another 
world to visit this place? That’s what 3^ou mean, isn’t it?” 

“ Your description might fit plenty of ghosts,” St. John 
temporized, smiling, but not quite happily. 

“ Yet you seemed to think at first that it fitted one in par- 
ticular. Do tell me about him.” 

“ Somebody else must have been doing that already,” said 
St. John. 

“ Has anybody — one of the servants or anybody else — ^been 
gossiping to you about such things? ” asked Frances. 

Dolores shook her head teasingly. “Not one of the serv- 
ants, anyway,” she answered. “ If I have a little secret, I 
shall keep it.” 

“ Ghost stories are nonsense,” said Mrs. Eliot. “ It’s silly 
to think of them.” 

“ It’s very interesting,” persisted the girl. “ Won’t you 
tell me about my ghost. Captain de Grey ? ” 

“ Captain de Grey is to do nothing of the kind, even if he 
could,” broke in Frances. “ You’re much too imaginative and 
fanciful already. I won’t have you dwelling on silly ideas like 

96 


CHAPTER TEN 


that. If you do, it will just spoil Queen’s Quadrangles for 
us both.” 

“ You see, I am forbidden,” said St. John. 

“ Yes, you are forbidden, for now ; and for when you come 
again, as I hope you will,” said Frances. “ That is, if ” — 
she added a little maliciously, “ you don’t mind associating 
with people who seem to be ostracized.^^ 

Sir John reddened for Ermyntrude and poor shy, con- 
science-stricken Jim. “ I think you’re rather cruel,” he said, 
“ but I don’t wonder. It isn’t to be expected that you could 
understand. It’s all a beastly shame anyhow.” 

“ Please don’t try and force your friends to come to a 
house where they don’t wish to visit,” said Frances, seeing 
what was in his mind. “We have been very happy here so far, 
without anyone, and we shall go on being happy, no doubt.” 

“ But you’re going to stop on for years, aren’t you — at 
least, I hope you are,” exclaimed the young man. “ You can’t 
live in this big house month in and month out all by your- 
selves, without any friends ; it would be monstrous. I — I won’t 
have it. Something must be done.” 

Frances laughed without bitterness now. “ You are quite 
a chivalrous knight for forlorn dames,” said she. “ But I 
don’t see how you can do anything. You’re only a man.” 

“ All the same, just wait and see,” he warned her myste- 
riously. 

Then he shook hands with mother and daughter, and went 
away, his head seething with wild schemes for forcing every- 
body who was anybody to call upon the tenants of Queen’s 
Quadrangles. 

His first effort was made at home, and failed as far as Lady 
Ermyntrude was concerned. As she reiterated, when she knew 

97 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

that she was right about a thing, she never changed her mind. 
After all that had passed, it would be simply impossible for 
her to enter that awful house. As for the argument that it 
belonged now to these Americans, and not to Lady Rosamund 
Vane-Eliot, this was mere sophistry, as St. John must admit 
if he were not determined to be arbitrary and obstinate. The 
house was Lady Rosamund’s, and she was in it. To call there 
on somebody else without asking iot her ‘would be like run- 
ning to the servants’ hall and making a visit. St. John could 
not see that.? Well, then, it was because he was a man. Jim 
could go, if he chose, as vicar ; but, of course, if he went with- 
out his wife, the Americans would have a right to feel that 
they were being slighted. On the whole, she thought even St. 
John must see that from their point of view this would be 
making bad matters worse. Besides, why did St. John care so 
much.? The girl might be as nice a girl as he described her 
but she could be nothing to him. 

“ Oh, can’t she.? ” echoed St. John angrily — for his vir- 
tuous sister could always make him lose his temper. “ That’s 
for her to say — by and by.” 

Lady Ermyntrude fixed her eyes upon her brother, losing 
her exalted expression for a moment. “ What — do — you — 
mean, if you mean anything.? ” she asked slowly. 

“ Only that, unless she snubs me too much, I shall ask her 
sooner or later — sooner if possible — whether she will let me 
be something to her. I tell you, Ermyntrude, she is the most 
adorable — the sweetest, prettiest, gentlest girl you ever saw. 
I always felt, if I should ever fall in love, it would be at first 
sight, and I have.” 

“ I hope you’re joking,” said Lady Ermyntrude. 

“ I assure you I’m not.” 


98 


CHAPTER TEN 


“ Then what about Gladys Gaines ? ” 

“ Confound Gladys Gaines ! ” 

“ You’re extremely rude. She will have twenty thousand 
a year.” ^ 

“ Hang her twenty thousand a year ! ” 

“ You are — almost sacrilegious,” said Lady Ermyntrude. 

UOFC. 


99 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 


THE DOOR UNDER THE TERRACE 

T hat night was clear and perfect as the last had been ; 
but it was too cool for sitting out of doors, in Mrs. 
Eliot’s opinion, and as there was nothing else to do 
with the evenings at Queen’s Quadrangles, except read novels 
or play Patience, she made no objections when Dolores pro- 
posed to go to bed very early. 

While Frances dropped asleep in the midst of wondering 
whether any Americans she knew were in London, and could 
be induced to come down and visit her, Dolores sat in the 
window seat again, with the lights out, watching. This time 
she had not waited to undress ; for seeing the windows already 
black, the man of mystery might think the coast clear for his 
moonlight tour on the lake. Her feet tucked under her, tailor 
fashion, elbows on knees and chin in hand, the girl waited for 
a dark figure to move along the lawn on its way to the marble 
terrace at the water’s edge. 

But no such figure appeared on the silvered expanse of 
grass. If it had, she must have seen it; and it was still so 
early that if the man feared discovery he would not have ven- 
tured out before. 

It had not been quite ten when she took her place at the 
window, but eleven o’clock struck without the fulfillment of 
what Dolores began to realize was hope. She wanted the man 

100 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 

to come. She would be deeply disappointed if he did not 
come. 

It was as she admitted this in her mind that the black shape 
of the gondola shot out from under the white terrace, and, 
with the same wandlike figure silhouetted against water and 
sky, was propelled along the path of the moon. 

Dolores’s heart gave a bound. How had he got to the shel- 
tering place of the gondola without being seen ? Had he been 
hiding in the darkness under the terrace for more than an 
hour.?* If he had, it would mean that he had come from some- 
where — wherever that “ somewhere ” might be — while many 
windows facing the lake were still bright with light, and peo- 
ple stirring about the house. Indeed, she and her mother had 
taken a short stroll before coming upstairs. 

Nevertheless, there was the tall figure in the gondola ; and 
the course steered was the same as on the night before: 
straight across, through the moonlight to the long line of 
shadow; then back and forth, back and forth, until at last, 
after a row of more than an hour, the gondola returned to 
shelter once more. More eagerly than ever did Dolores watch 
after that, to see if the man would come up the steps, but he 
did not come. If he were in truth a ghost, he could not have 
vanished more mysteriously; and the girl began to like the 
thought that he was a ghost, the hero of some strange story 
dim with years, which others knew but would not tell. 

If a little while ago anyone had warned Dolores Eliot that 
she would come to believe in ghostly apparitions she would 
not have laughed, but she would have shaken her head in firm 
conviction of the contrary. If there were such things as 
ghosts, other people might see them, but it could never hap- 
pen to her, she would have said. Now she was not at all sure 

101 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


that it had not happened. It would be difficult to account in 
any more material way for the sudden appearance and disap- 
pearance of the figure in the gondola ; and perhaps the gon- 
dola was not the real, but a phantom one. 

In any case, there was nothing to fear. Even if the tall 
young man should suddenly glide through her closed door, 
and glide out again, she thought that she would not be fright- 
ened — well, not much frightened. And she longed to see what 
his face was like. 

She was too excited to sleep much that night; and when 
she waked at half past five o’clock she sprang instantly out 
of bed. Twisting up her long hair and slipping on a traveling 
cloak which covered her from head to foot, she ran down- 
stairs and opened a window of the drawing-room whence she 
could walk out upon the lawn. There was a heavy dew, but 
Dolores was not afraid of wetting her little satin bedroom 
slippers. 

Already it was daylight — a pale, glimmering daylight, like 
moon rays sifting through white fog — though the sun had not 
yet climbed over the edge of the world. The girl went softly 
and swiftly to the marble terrace, where she descended the 
steps, and walked round the lower platform to the mooring 
place of the boats. She had thought that, if the man were a 
real man who had rowed the real gondola, he might have slept 
the night in it, and not yet be gone. But the gondola was 
empty. The same knot of rope still tethered it to one of those 
blocks of marble which made the wall underneath and at the 
back of the terrace; or if the knot was not the same it had 
been tied in the same fashion. 

So he had eluded her, whether he were man or spirit; and 
Dolores stole back into the house again to go back to bed and 

102 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 


try to sleep another hour or two. But “ I will know — I will 
know ! ” she said to herself. 

That day St. John de Grey paid a second call, and 
brought his brother-in-law, the vicar, who had too much tact, 
despite his wretched shyness, to apologize in words for not 
having been before. He carried a note from Lady Ermyn- 
trude hinting at “ a cold ” which prevented her from leaving 
the house and inviting her and Miss Eliot to “ waive cere- 
mony ” and come to dinner one night next week. Also St. 
John de Grey had news. A friend of his. Lady Desmond, had 
telegraphed the Duke of Bridgewater, whom she had known 
all her life, that she wanted to come down to Tillingboume 
Court presently and bring some people to stop for a few days. 
She would call on Mrs. Eliot, and the duke would come with 
her if he were well enough to go out, but as he was rather an 
invalid (or thought that he was, which meant the same thing) 
he was seldom to be counted upon. 

Frances was quite shrewd enough to guess that Lady Des- 
mond and her satellites had been hastily summoned by Cap- 
tain de Grey, as genii are called by rubbing lamp or ring. 
Also, she was not blind to the reason for all this kind interest 
in her welfare on the part of the young man ; nor was she dis- 
pleased by it. She thought him delightful: and democrat 
though she was, the fact that when his childless brother died 
he would become an earl, did not militate against him in her 
regard. She had married an Englishman, and she did not see 
why Dolores should not follow her example. 

As for accepting Lady Ermyntrude’s informal invitation, 
she was at first doubtful; but Mr. Heckshaw’s kind, near- 
sighted eyes and shy manner won her heart. Besides, it would 
be awkward to refuse Lady Ermyntrude’s overtures, if her 

103 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


brother’s friendship were to be enjoyed. “ As she is the vicar’s 
wife,” Frances argued persuasively, “ perhaps I may make 
an exception with her. But, of course, other people’s invita- 
tions I must refuse, if they won’t give me the chance of re- 
turning their hospitality.” 

“ Don’t you think Captain de Grey one of the nicest young 
men you ever met? ” she asked Dolores after their first two 
callers had gone. And the girl said “ Oh, yes ” ; but she an- 
swered absent-mindedly, and Frances wondered where her 
thoughts were wandering. She even hazarded a guess or two, 
but she would never have guessed the truth — ^that Dolores was 
thinking of a ghost. 

Not only was Dolores thinking of the ghost, but she wa^ 
making plans to see it again, and at closer quarters. 

It was all very mysterious, but the part which puzzled her 
most was, whence came the figure, and whither did it go when 
it vanished. As it was an “ out-of-doors ghost ” and she had 
decided that she was not in the least afraid, be it a thing of 
flesh or spirit, she had thought of a scheme which she could 
scarcely wait to carry out. Accordingly, she kissed her mother 
good-night at half past nine that evening, but stopped in her 
bedroom only long enough to put on her dark traveling coat, 
and ring for the maid who must be taken into her confidence. 
The woman was told that Miss Eliot wished to watch the 
moon rise, and would like to be let in again soon after 
eleven. 

Secure in the knowledge that she would not be locked out 
of the house for all night, Dolores skirted the lawn, keeping 
under the shadow of trees or close to dark, herbaceous borders 
until she had come so close to the marble terrace that she could 
hear the whisper and lap of water against the white columns. 

104 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 


Within a few yards of the terrace a great weeping willow 
hung its head of flowing tresses, which nearly touched the 
ground. Dolores crept under the waving canopy, and huddled 
in her cloak, sat down on the grass to wait. 

By and by the moon rose, silvering lawn and lake, and lur- 
ing from each flower its sweetest secret of perfume. In the 
growing light, Dolores could see from where she sat the black 
shapes of the gondola and the canoe, moored under the roof 
which the terrace made. A faint gray gleam touched the 
close-set marble blocks of the wall at the back, where the big 
rings were fixed, and suddenly it seemed to the girl that it 
was not only the slowly creeping streak of moonlight which 
moved there. 

At first she thought it could be no more than a weird flick- 
ering of light and shadow that gave the strange effect, but 
at last she knew that it was not merely an effect. The big 
middle block of marble was being pushed slowly outward, like 
an opening door. 

Dolores’s heart began to beat so fast and hard that it almost 
choked her. It had been all well enough to say in bright, 
wholesome sunlight, or looking out into the sweet night from 
the safe haven of her own room, that she was not afraid ; but 
she could not say that now, even to give herself courage. A 
startling, wholly unexpected, almost incredible thing was hap- 
pening under her eyes, and she was afraid, shamefully afraid. 

The door under the terrace opened toward her. It was 
nearly three feet square, and in the aperture behind it was a 
faint glimmer of light. At last the door was pushed wide open, 
and framed in the space it left was the figure of a man, the 
yellow light from an old-fashioned lantern shining up to his 
face. 


105 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


It was the figure she knew, Dolores was sure of that; and 
as for the face — it was the face she could have wished for, if 
she had dared hope for the best. Even with the lantern send- 
ing up fantastic shadows, like overstrong footlights before a 
darkened stage, it was a noble face, cut in strong, clear lines, 
which seemed somehow to match the grace and strength of the 
figure. Yet — or it was an effect of strange lightning — the 
face was sad to tragedy, hardened to a terrible self-control 
which seemed to have turned it to marble, for it was marble 
pale in the lantern light. In that light, too, the eyes were 
great wells of sorrow ; and a vast pity and sympathy growing 
in Dolores’s romantic young heart chased away all fear. 

If she saw a man or woman whom she admired, her first im- 
pulse was always to compare the living person with some hero 
or heroine of history or poetry, for the girl’s happiest hours 
were lived in books and the thoughts which books gave. Now, 
she said to herself that this man — or spirit — looked like 
Launcelot, Sir Launcelot of the Lake ; and he was of the lake. 
She held her breath as she peeped at him, yet was half 
ashamed to peep. 

He appeared to have no fear of being spied upon, or even 
to think that spying might be possible. He bent and set down 
his lantern somewhere behind and below the door in the wall. 
Then he put his leg over the high barrier of the doorway, as 
if it had been a stile to climb, and in a second more he was on 
the other side, standing on the platform a step or two above 
the water’s edge. Thence he reached into the aperture, where 
a faint light still showed, and brought out a long oar such as 
gondoliers use, after which, having pushed the block of mar- 
ble almost, though not quite, into place, he stepped into the 
old gondola, and reaching up, untied the rope. 

106 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 


All this he did tranquilly, without any sign of haste or ex- 
citement, and so quietly did he push out from under the ter- 
race that the water scarcely murmured at the dip of his oar. 
For a moment, he passed from Dolores’s sight, then came out 
in full moonlight as she had seen him come when she watched 
remotely in her window. He steered across the broad sheet of 
silver and was swallowed up as on the two other nights, in a 
deep gulf of shadow near the margin of the lake. 

When he and the gondola could no longer be seen from 
where she sat under the willow, Dolores still felt a weight of 
guilt, as if she had spied upon a scene to which her eyes and 
ears had had no right. But then she reminded herself that it 
was she who had the right to be here, not the man of the gon- 
dola. 

This place was her mother’s now, and therefore hers, and 
if that were granted, the man must be trespassing. Mysteri- 
ous as he was, he could not, she supposed, be in reality a 
ghost. He must have discovered this hiding place somehow, 
and be using it for his own purposes. 

They could not be bad purposes, the girl thought. A man 
with the face of Sir Launcelot of the Lake did not do mean 
or treacherous things ; but whatever the mystery was, she had 
a right to search and find the key to it — if she had the 
courage. 

Yes, if she had the courage ! there was the stumbling block. 
She was not afraid of the man, but she hardly knew which was 
stronger, her dread or her desire of seeing what lay behind 
that secretive block of marble which was a door. Then she 
remembered how she had said to herself that she must know 
whence the man came, if she discovered no more. Now was the 
time to learn, and perhaps there would be no other time but 

107 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


this. Afterwards, how she would reproach herself for cow- 
ardice if she did not take advantage of this chance ! 

Quivering with excitement, and not knowing whether the 
thing she did was right or wrong, Dolores flitted out from 
the shadow, ghostlike as the figure she had followed. Only the 
determination not to be a coward kept her from running back 
as fast as she could go to the house. She had but a few steps 
to take, and then she would reach the flight of marble stairs 
which led down from the terrace to the platform underneath. 


108 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DOOR 

T he night was still bright, but while the girl had sat 
waiting under the tree by the lakeside, a wind from 
the south had sent rain clouds boiling up over the 
horizon, and now the white moon shone through a long, 
straight slit in darkly gathering masses, like a piece of silver 
in a gashed black purse. Dolores had only a small patch of 
shining grass to cross, and then she plunged again into 
shadow. 

The man had not pushed the block of marble tightly into 
place. Perhaps he knew that, if he did so, he would not be 
able to open it from outside. Dolores pulled at the big ring 
to which the gondola had been tied, and after two or three 
tugs she had the door open. 

The light on the other side burned as when she had seen . 
it last, a dim yellow glaze ; and the first thing it showed her 
was that the marble formed but a thin layer covering a thick 
piece of wood, heavily barred across. There were three large 
bolts on the inner side, at top and bottom and in the middle, 
so that when shut, even if one knew the secret of the block of 
marble, it would be impossible to force it. 

The girl was looking into a narrow, arched bricked pas- 
sage, just high enough to allow a tall man to walk without 
stooping. Several steps led down to a roughly flagged floor, 
and on one of these steps stood the old-fashioned lantern 

109 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


which the man had placed there before embarking in the gon- 
dola. The brick walls looked very old, though well preserved, 
and were streaked as if with a vague pattern of green mold or 
moss. Peering in, it seemed to Dolores that, after going 
straight on for a distance of perhaps fifteen or twenty feet, 
the passage either came to an end or made an abrupt turn, and 
the thought of venturing into it was like an adventure in the 
“ Arabian Nights.” 

There was no question in the girl’s mind as to what she 
would do. She was filled with a delicious terror at the thought 
of exploring the passage, yet she was as definitely compelled 
to explore it, as if she had been hypnotized. 

“ The end of the passage,” she whispered on the first step ; 
but even the remembrance at such a moment of Rudyard 
Kipling’s terrible story did not drive her back. 

Four steps she counted, and then she stood on the flagged 
floor, with the brick arch of the low roof seven or eight inches 
above her head. There was a damp, yet not unpleasant odor 
in the place, like that in an unused cellar, and as Dolores took 
up the lantern a rat skurried past her feet. Holding up the 
light, she watched the tiny, swift shadow dart to the far end 
of the passage, where he disappeared. Either he had a hole 
there, where brick and stone joined, or else the passage 
branched to the right. 

It was cold as well as damp in this strange, underground 
corridor, and the smell of hot iron given out by the lantern 
was comforting in its commonplaceness, seeming almost to 
impart warmth. Physically hesitating but mentally deter- 
mined, Dolores walked on, throwing back a glance now and 
then. She had not dared to close the door lest there should 
be a hidden spring of some sort and she should find herself 

110 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


a prisoner. There was the chance that the man of the gon- 
dola might come back before she had made discoveries and 
got away, but for two nights of moonlight before this she had 
watched his tactics, and knew that his voyage on the lake had 
on each occasion lasted more than an hour. Now, he had only 
just gone out. It would hardly be worth his while to go at 
all unless he stopped long enough to pay himself for his 
trouble ; and brave as Dolores was made by curiosity, she had 
a conviction that her courage would soon be burned out. When 
it flickered and died she would hurry into the sweet peace of 
the moonlight again, and hide herself from the man, even 
if she did not run into the house. Then he could come back 
when he liked, and need never know that his hidden haunt had 
been discovered — unless she found it wise and right to tell. 

It was not until she had almost reached what had at first 
appeared to be the end of the subterranean corridor that she 
saw a dark archway to the right of the far wall. She felt it 
more terrifying to pass under' this archway and go on into 
the black unknown than it had been to traverse the short, 
straight passage where return to the open door was simple 
and easy. But the girl had obstinate blood in her veins: 
Spanish blood which had boiled in fire lit by Philip the Sec- 
ond; English blood, shed on the block by Cromwell; New 
England blood which had flowed without grudging on battle- 
fields of the Revolution. 

She followed where the little darting black shadow on the 
floor had led, and then found herself in a branching passage 
exactly like the first. Now, down somewhere under the level 
of the lawn, she knew that she must be going in the direction 
of the house. Still she went on, and so long was the passage 
that a curtain of darkness shut off the end, waving always 

111 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


elusively before her as she moved. At last, however, she came 
suddenly upon a door of iron, so black that she had almost 
touched it before she knew that a solid barrier blocked the 
way. 

There were two great bolts on the rusty sheet of metal, one 
at top and one at bottom, and a big ring instead of a handle 
midway between the two. Evidently the man of the gondola 
had no fear of pursuit, for he had not shot the bolts, and 
Dolores pulled the door toward her, the hinges giving out a 
faint groan which sent her heart up to her throat. But there 
was no other sound, and holding the lantern high with a little 
cold hand that was far from steady, she peeped round the 
opening door. 

On the other side there were two more bolts of formidable 
size and quaint make, which suggested the handiwork of some 
long-past generation. Beyond was a cellar, empty so far as 
Dolores’s lantern showed, and walled with a shadow. In the 
midst of this space a spiral staircase of stone wound up to a 
square hole in the vaulted roof of the crypt or cellar ; and this 
square, more than two, but perhaps less than three feet in 
size, was defined by a faint light which burned above. 

The narrow twisting staircase of stone had no handrail, and 
Dolores mounted, feeling slightly giddy. Her heart was beat- 
ing like the strokes of a hammer in her breast, and the sound 
was so loud in her ears that she was not sure whether some 
outside sound might not be mingling with it. Nevertheless, 
she had to go on. It seemed to her that she would have had 
to go on even if she had been sure that some one waited at the 
top of the stairs to strike her on the head. 

But no one was there. She reached the last step and gtood 
looking round, quivering with that mingling of terror and 

112 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


curiosity which combine to make the tensest excitement the 
human brain can know. 

What she saw was a small court, marble paved. One of the 
blocks in the pavement — a mere veneering of marble on solid 
wood, as was the door under the terrace — had been lifted and 
laid back upon the floor, and it was this aperture which gave 
entrance from the cellar beneath. 

“ What a lovely court ! ” was the first thought which sprang 
into the girl’s head as it rose above the level of the floor. 
Then she was surprised at the banality of such a thought, con- 
sidering the mystery of this strange, secret place. 

There was a fountain in the center of the court, just a small 
marble basin filled with water, out of which rose the delicate 
figure of a naiad. Stooping, the marble maid raised slim arms 
above her head, holding up carved masses of trailing hair ; 
and from her hands and from her hair dripped water which 
fell with a pearly splash into the basin. 

This court was square, like the great Fountain Court and 
the Court of the Cypresses; but four of its size might have 
existed in either of the other two and still left much room to 
spare. The north and west walls were of marble, unbroken 
by door or window, or any carving. The smoothly joined 
blocks glistened in the light, pale opal blue at the top under 
the moon, ivory below where the rays of a tall lamp gilded 
their white surface. Against these two blank walls were placed 
many huge jars of red terra cotta or quaint old Moorish pot- 
tery, mingling rich coloring, blue and black and yellow ; while 
in the jars grew spreading palms, and orange and lemon trees 
hung with balls of gold. 

Near the fountain stood a carved seat of marble, with a 
rose-colored cushion of old velvet, such as Italians love to 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


lay on marble; and drawn close to the seat was an inlaid 
ebony table of Eastern shape and make. On this was the tall 
lamp whose rays gilded the gleaming walls, its flame softened 
by a modern shade of seaweed-green silk, which might have 
been fashioned by some dainty woman of taste ; and the light 
of this lamp with the moonlight filtering down from the high 
purple roof, which was the sky, gave to Dolores’s astonished 
eyes the whole strange picture. 

The south and east walls, also of marble, were pierced with 
doors and windows, all set in exquisitely carved frames, such 
as the girl had seen in pictures of old Venetian palaces. The 
double row of windows, four on each side — two above and two 
below — showed that there were rooms on two stories, facing 
upon the court ; and one of the two carved-oak doors, standing 
half open, had a light behind it. Dolores peeped round, and 
then ventured into the room she saw. It was small — tiny com- 
pared with those to which she had grown used of late; but 
it was beautifully paneled in oak up to the ceiling, and there 
were many shelves closely filled with books. Of furniture 
there was very little ; only a couple of old oak chairs, a high- 
backed seat which might have graced a monastery, a table, 
and a curious Spanish chest, which was open and evidently 
in use as a writing desk. But the covering of chairs and table 
was of wonderful old brocade of a rose ground, stiff with 
the gold which formed the pattern wandering over it. On a 
mantel stool silver candlesticks, and above hung a full-length 
portrait of a lovely girl. 

She was in a dress which might have belonged to any period 
since the sixteenth century ; white, with a filmy fichu, whose 
ends floated in a breeze of the artist’s imagining. Her hands 
were full of pink roses, and she and they seemed fresh as the 

114 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


morning suggested by the sunlit blue and white of the land- 
scape background. She leaned forward, smiling, as if look- 
ing for some one, and her face had not only the charm of 
youth, but the allurement of conscious beauty. The eyes were 
either dark gray or black, and the hair, dressed to please 
an artist, was a red chestnut, full of gleams and shadows. 
The lips were full, their pout half coquettish, half petulant, 
wholly provoking, the nose delicate and haughty. The girl 
seemed born to be worshiped and made much of by men who 
would give their lives to keep all sorrow or sordidness from 
her, and think themselves well paid by such a smile as the 
picture immortalized. 

“ Lady Rosamund might have been a little like that when 
she was a young girl,” Dolores thought. “ Perhaps this is 
the portrait of some relative or ancestress of hers.” 

Then some slight sound made her turn, and she found her- 
self facing the man of the gondola. 


115 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


THE GHOST 

F or a moment neither spoke. They stood looking at 
each other, Dolores unconsciously holding the lantern, 
her hand nervously tight upon the handle. The light 
fell on her face and made her great eyes luminous, while a 
shadow veiled his. 

She had stumbled upon some extraordinary secret; and 
since this great house of Queen’s Quadrangles was her home, 
nobody had a right to a secret in it, yet she felt crushed and 
miserable, like a caught spy, and all her eager curiosity was 
dead or lying stunned. 

He was very stern and pale, or else the dim light in this 
oak-walled room darkened his eyes and hardened the lines of 
his face into cold severity. 

“ Well.? ” he said at last. 

Only that one word, yet into it Dolores’s excited fancy 
read anger, contempt, and something like desperation. He 
looked and spoke like a man at bay, facing a great danger, 
not afraid, but resolved to know the worst, and to know it 
at once. Also, there was something strange about his voice. 
It sounded unreal, as the voice of a hermit or a prisoner unac- 
customed to speaking often might sound. These things she 
thought, though had she stopped to question herself about 
them, it must have seemed fantastic to deduce so much from 
one word, a monosyllable. 


116 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


“ I — are you — a ghost — or a — real man? ” she faltered 
like a child. 

This was not what she had meant to ask. The foolish words 
tumbled out in spite of her, and he answered before she had 
time to speak again more sensibly. 

“ I am a ghost,” he said ; “ and this is my ghostly habita- 
tion. Will you tell me who you are, and — why you come 
here? ” 

“ I am Dolores Eliot. But — but perhaps you don’t know 
who that is ? ” the girl stammered, her cheeks hot. 

“ And if I do not know ? ” He was not smiling, but looking 
at her intently, never once releasing her eyes from his. 

“ Oh, then — well, I live here — at Queen’s Quadrangles, with 
my mother. She has — taken the house.” 

“ I see. And you want me to understand that I’ve no right 
here? But if I am a ghost, I have a prior right. New tenants 
seldom succeed in turning out old ghosts.” Now he did smile 
faintly, but there was no merriment in his smile, only bitter- 
ness, which somehow seemed all the sadder for the smile. 

“ We — I don’t think we want to turn anyone out,” said 
Dolores, confused and unhappy. 

“ Not even a ghost? ” 

“ I can’t believe that you are a bad ghost.” 

Perhaps she only imagined it, but it seemed to her that 
the marble-cut face suddenly softened a little, becoming hu- 
manized, as if a statue had under some magic influence felt 
the thrill of life. 

‘‘ Why can’t you believe me a bad ghost? ” he repeated, in 
that strange voice which was sweet to the ear yet unreal as an 
echo. 

“ I — you don’t look wicked, only — sad.” 

117 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ Only sad ! ” he echoed. “ Only sad.” 

“ And lonely,” added Dolores. 

He smiled again, his pale face a beautiful mask of tragedy 
against its dark background. 

“ I suppose all ghosts must be sad and lonely,” he said. 
“ It is their fate, if they insist on haunting a world in which 
they no longer have any place.” 

Suddenly a vast pity for the man swept over the girl, over- 
whelming her as with a great crystal wave. “ Oh, you have a 
place ! ” she cried. “ You must try to feel that you have a 
place. Not to feel that must be horrible.” 

“ I have ceased to feel,” he said. “ In some cases, to let 
oneself feel would be worse than the death that I have died. 
But don’t be frightened ” — his tone changed as she started 
and shrank. “ I ought not to talk to you like that. Yet how 
should a ghost know how to talk to a girl.'^ The marble girl 
of the fountain is the only one with whom I hold any converse, 
and she is the only one to whom I have a right to speak. You 
ought not to have come into this — ghost house.” 

“ It is — the lost court ! ” Dolores said, in an awed whisper, 
more to herself than to him. 

“ Yes, it is the lost court,” he repeated, with a ring of 
that bitter defiance which the girl had heard in the first word 
he spoke. “ And I am a lost cause, more lost than ever, now 
that I have been found.” 

Dolores’s eyes, which had scarcely left his, dilated. She 
shivered delicately. 

“ You are lost, because I have found you.? Is that what you 
mean ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes, that is what I mean.” 

“ You think I will tell people that — ^you are here? ” 

118 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


‘‘ Why should you not ? ” 

“ Because-^well, just because I couldn^t. And because of 
what I said: that you aren’t a wicked ghost. I don’t know 
what you are doing in this secret place, or who you are ” 

“ I am no one. Ghosts have no name, no identity. Think of 
me as a man that was, and am no more.” 

“ It’s all very, very strange, and I don’t pretend to under- 
stand,” went on Dolores. “ But if you can’t explain ” 

I can’t explain,” he broke into her questioning pause. 

‘‘ I shall try to think it’s all right that you should be here,” 
she finished bravely. 

“ At least I shall not do harm to you, or to anyone,” he 
said. “ You may be sure of that.” 

“ I am sure. I don’t quite know why, but I know that I am 
very sure. And I can see — that you are unhappy. Not for 
anything would I make you more sad than you are.” 

“ You are very good — wonderfully good, to a poor ghost,” 
he answered, a look of yearning passing like a bleak light 
across his face, the look a man might throw from behind 
prison bars at a fair landscape of spring flowers. “ You won’t 
turn me out, then, from the only place I am allowed to 
haunt.? ” 

“ No,” said Dolores. 

“ But not turning me out means not telling anyone that 
I am here. If anybody knew, the ghost would be immediately 
exorcised.” 

You shan’t be exorcised,” the girl promised. 

“ Even if you should do nothing but tell that the lost court 
still exists, I should have to flit,” said the ghost. 

“ Does anybody know.? ” 

“ I believe that scarcely a living being, except yourself, 

119 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


knows. I don’t count. I am not a living being. I’m out of life 
— out of the world, unless you call this a world, of which I am 
the only inhabitant.” 

“ It’s very beautiful here,” Dolores said thoughtfully. 

“ I suppose it is. But oh, how sick of it I’ve been these 
many years — how sick unto death ! ” 

“ I’m so sorry ! ” exclaimed the girl, with a new pang of 
wondering pity. 

“ But I’m ungrateful to say that,” he corrected himself, in 
a more natural tone than he had used before. “ After all — 
there might perhaps be a worse fate. You’re right. It is beau- 
tiful here. Many things should make it beautiful for me.” 

“ How strange that this court and all these rooms should 
exist without anyone knowing,” said Dolores, looking about 
with admiring interest. 

“ Not so very strange, perhaps,” the ghost answered. 
“ Many generations ago Queen’s Quadrangles was struck by 
lightning in a great storm which carried destruction all over 
the county. This part of the house was badly damaged, and 
the man who owned it then gave out that it was destroyed. 
He had his own reasons for wanting its existence forgotten, 
they say. Then he restored it as secretly as it had originally 
been built.” 

“ But why should it have been built secretly ? ” asked the 
girl. 

“ Oh, Don Filipo, who built the house, loved a beautiful 
countrywoman of his own, though he married an English lady. 
I don’t think it’s a story I could tell you. The secret was 
discovered somehow, though, and given away — ^not the secret 
of the entrance, but the fact that there was a third court so 
well hidden no one outside need ever have guessed that it 

1^0 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


existed. Very few ever knew for certain, however ; the master 
of the house did his best to spread the impression that it was 
all gossip. And as the great storm I told you of came nearly 
two hundred years ago, it has been called the ‘ lost court ’ for 
over a century, farther back than the memory of the oldest 
man could go.” 

“ But not farther than the memory of ghosts, since you 
found it,” said Dolores gravely. 

“ No, not farther than the memory of ghosts,” he repeated. 
“ I wish that a ghost’s memory were shorter.” 

“ Perhaps you’re the ghost of the man who built the house 
and made the hidden court ” She was smiling a little now, 
for though her nerves were keyed high with excitement still, 
she had long ceased to be afraid. 

“ Perhaps.” 

‘‘ And — is that a picture of the beautiful Spanish lady 
you loved when you were alive ” Eagerly, yet half ashamed, 
Dolores asked the question, pointing to the old portrait over 
the mantel. 

“ It is a beautiful lady I loved when I was alive, and whom 
I am permitted to love — beyond the grave.” As he spoke, 
he looked at the painting with such worship in his tragic eyes 
that Dolores had a curious sensation of loss and aloofness. 
What difference did her insignificant sympathy make to this 
strange man who called himself a ghost, while such love still 
had power to warm his heart? 

“ Then,” the girl said timidly, ‘‘ then you can never feel 
quite alone.” 

“ Not quite,” he replied. “ That is why there might be a 
worse fate than mine. I have love — to remember.” 

“ And no other joy? ” 


121 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ Oh, a few other memories. And after all, what does it 
really matter whether a thing happened two centuries or two 
minutes ago.^ It is equally past — over forever, not to be 
recalled.” 

“ That sounds terribly sad,” said Dolores. 

“ I should be sorry to have anything seem sad to you,” he 
answered. “ You are like a glimpse of sunshine — sunshine on 
spring flowers. It’s many years since I’ve seen that — except 
in imagination. Ghosts keep their imagination, you know — 
intensified a hundredfold.” 

Oh, but not to see the spring and the flowers ! ” cried the 

girl. 

“ I said, not the sunshine. Ghosts can’t stand sunshine. I 
see the spring and the flowers by moonlight sometimes. It’s 
not the same. But it’s next best. Ghosts must be thankful 
for ‘ next best ’ things.” 

“ That’s why you go out in the gondola ; to look at the 
flowers and the moonlight? ” 

“ The moonlight comes to me here — as you see. And a few 
green things. Did you ever read the story of Picciola? I’ve 
been in the habit of stealing out at night, when the weather 
wasn’t too bad for ghosts, for many a year now. There’s 
pleasure of a sort in escaping even for a few minutes from the 
place you’re doomed to haunt. But how can you realize that? 
You’re not a ghost. You’re a happy young girl, strayed like 
Eurydice into Hades; only you didn’t come to see Orpheus. 
You came only to explore, because the gate of Hell was 
open.” 

“ Ah, I hope it isn’t really that to you,” said Dolores. “ I 
know you couldn’t have deserved it.” 

“ It does me good to hear you say so — somehow ; to be taken 

122 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


on faith by some one who is young and sweet is rather like a 
drink of cool water when one has been thirsty for a long 
time.” 

“ I wish I could do more than that for you ! ” breathed the 
girl. 

‘‘ You are going to do a great deal for me — more than I 
had any right to expect. You are going to keep my secret, 
and the secret of the lost court.” 

“ And the gondola, too. Please, please go out on the lake 
just as if I hadn’t seen you. Will you promise to do that, to 
reward me for my promise to you.” 

He looked at her very searchingly. “ Yes, I will go,” he 
said. “ I’m trusting you completely, you see.” 

“ So am I trusting you,” she retorted. I’m here all alone 
with you, you know. If you were a wicked ghost, it would be 
in your power to frighten me to death.” 

“ Think of me as a most grateful ghost. This night will be 
an epoch in — my ghosthood; a very different one from what 
I thought at first it would turn out to be for me.” 

‘‘ When you thought I would tell.? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Well, now you know I won’t. Not to anyone in the world, 
even my mother. And I won’t look at the lake in the moon- 
light any more, if you’d rather I didn’t.” 

‘‘ I would rather you did, if you really mean that my 
haunting it sometimes won’t spoil the place for you. And if 
that will spoil it. I’ll stay away.” 

“ Don’t stay away. It gives me pleasant thoughts to see 
you there; thoughts of a poem of Tennyson’s. Only — it did 
make me curious. I had to come and find out where the figure 
came from, and whether it were real or a ghost.” 

US 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ So you thought even then that it might be a ghost ? ” 

“ Yes. You see, the other day at Miss Greenleaf’s — but 
perhaps you don’t know who the Miss Greenleafs are.^^ ” 

‘‘ Are they friends of yours ? ” It seemed to Dolores that 
the worn face lighted up with a kind of wistful eagerness that 
was not all sad. 

“ I’ve met them. Such dear little ladies — twins-; just alike. 
And their house is like an old-fashioned doll’s house — at least, 
compared with this. It smells of pot pourri and spices, and 
the Miss Greenleafs smell like dried lavender.” 

“ Dried lavender ! ” he echoed. “ How that brings back — 
many things. But they — these Miss Greenleafs, did they tell 
you there was a ghost at Queen’s Quadrangles ? ” 

“ Not they, but a woman who was calling on them — a Mrs. 
Calendar, with stick-out teeth and boiled gooseberry eyes, 

and a figure just like a tenpin. And Captain de Grey ” 

“ Yes, Captain de Grey.?* Is that another friend of yours.?* ” 

“ He’s just begun to be. He came here ” 

‘‘ Here — to this house.?* ” 

“ Yes, to call on mother, and brought his brother-in-law, 
a sweet old man with a face like a wind, near-sighted Irish 

terrier, if an Irish terrier could be bright pink ” 

“ But he isn’t old. He ” 

“ Do you know the one I’m talking about.?* ” 

The poor ghost seemed to flush; and the red that crept 
over his face made him look younger, less like a marble statue 
come alive. 

‘‘ Perhaps,” he said slowly, as if apologizing for the inter- 
ruption, “ perhaps I was thinking of former generations of 
people hereabouts. To one who has come back to this bourne 
as I have years are as moments, moments as years. Why, I 

124 } 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


hardly know one night from another; days can’t be said to 
exist for me. But I shall know this night from others, for- 
ever. It makes a break for me in the long monotony. I thought 
that consequences very evil for ghosts would surely come of 
your visit when I first saw you here, but now I bless the 
chance that brought you. The memory will be a bright spot 
as long as — as I am doomed to haunt this spot.” 

“ It wasn’t chance that brought me,” said Dolores. “ I 
was watching for you, in sight of the marble terrace; and 
when I saw that door underneath I had to find out what was 
beyond.” 

‘‘ You were very brave.” 

‘‘ I don’t know. I couldn’t just help it. I’m so glad that 
you’re not angry, because now I feel ” 

‘‘ Now you feel.? ” 

“ As if this place belonged to you.” 

Rather do I belong to it. It’s all I have.” 

‘‘ Can’t you go — I mean haunt — anywhere else .? ” 

‘‘ Never. Never ! But if you will add to your great good- 
ness to me, you’ll ask me no questions. I could not answer 
them. I daren’t beg that you won’t question others ” 

“Would others know about you.?” 

“ Not about me. But they might rake up an old, old story, 
if you spoke of a ghost at Queen’s Quadrangles. I shouldn’t 
like you to hear that story. But I’ve no right to try and 
prevent your hearing it. Nor could I, if I would. I’m help- 
less.” 

“ You’re not helpless,” protested Dolores impulsively, 
“ because you’ve said you didn’t want me to hear the story, 
whatever it is, and I wonH. I won’t ask. And what’s more, 
I won’t let people tell me stories about Queen’s Quadrangles, 

125 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


even if they want to — which they won’t, I think, for everyone 
seems to hate talking of the place.” 

The man’s face changed, and something like a shudder 
passed through his body, which he controlled, and pressed his 
lips tightly, almost painfully together. “ That is natural — 
and it is well,” he said at last. “ Thank you again for saying 
you won’t listen to — ghost tales, and for not questioning me. 
I am a ghost — that’s all. And that is, nothing. So I wouldn’t 
repay the trouble of questions.” 

I always thought that I shouldn’t be afraid of a ghost, 
especially if he were a ghost haunting a beautiful place like 
this,” said Dolores, more lightly. “Now I know I was right 
about myself. I hope ghosts don’t hate girls.? ” 

“ I told you that you were like sunshine on spring flowers 
— to a ghost. But sunshine is fleeting, in a ghost’s anomalous 
existence. When it goes, it will leave the darkness more visible 
than ever.” 

“What if it should — come back.? ” Dolores asked timidly, 
the blood streaming over her face. “ Shall it come back .? ” 
“You would come.?” 

“ Why not, if you cared about seeing me, and would say 
‘ open Sesame ’ to that strange door under the terrace .? ” 

For a moment he was silent, looking at her as if in a dream. 
Then “ Why not .? ” he repeated, rather bitterly. “ Why 
not.? I dare say your mother would let you visit some poor 
consumptive wretch, slowly dying in a cottage? Then she 
needn’t object to your coming to a wretch already dead, and 
worst than dead — a wretch to whom you would bring fresh 
aid and memories of another life.” 

“ Oh, I will come ! ” exclaimed Dolores. 


126 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


THE SECOND DREAM 

W HEN Dolores stood once more on the steps of the 
marble terrace, with the secret door underneath so 
tightly closed that its very existence had become 
incredible, she could hardly believe that the episode of the 
lost court had really happened. 

How much more likely that she had fallen asleep under the 
willow tree, and having started up in a wild dream, had waked 
to find herself before a shut door in a wall which had never 
opened ! 

There was the gondola tied, as usual, to the great ring in 
the block of marble. And there was nothing to remind her of 
the “ ghost ” who had propelled it so skillfully, or of her con- 
versation with him in that “ lost ” part of the house which he 
haunted. His long oar was gone; his lantern was gone; the 
door by which she had entered and by which (in the dream) 
he had let her out, was gone. 

The glory of ihe moon was gone; not because the hour was 
late, but because of billowing clouds that let only a faint, 
watery gleam of light steal through. There had been rain 
during her absence (or sleep) for the marble steps glistened 
with moisture and the grass which had been dry was wet. If 
there really had been a man in the gondola and if a secret 
door really had stood ajar, and she had dared to explore what 
lay on the other side, it must have been that sudden storm 

m 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


which drove the rower off the water. If no drenching rain had 
fallen, the nightly tour would not have been cut short, and 
she would have finished her dream-explorations without being 
caught. At first, when she had turned to find that she was not 
alone in the oak-lined room of books, there had been a moment 
of consternation and a wild wish for escape ; but now she was 
glad, very glad, that the dream had ended as it had. It 
seemed to her that no girl in the world could ever have had a 
dream so intensely interesting, so wonderful as this. And 
then, the best part after all was, that she could go back into 
the dream again, taking it up where she had left off. Many 
times she had wished, and tried, to do that with dreams, but 
she had never succeeded. With this dream it was going to be 
different. 

In her heart, of course, Dolores felt sure that she had not 
dreamed, though she had actually to force upon herself the 
conviction that her adventure had been real. But when she 
had been quietly let into the house by the maid who waited 
her pleasure, when she had undressed and was lying in bed, 
the experience seemed more and more remote. Next morning 
when she waked after an unusually heavy sleep, into which 
she had fallen very late, there was no longer any need to im- 
press the dream theory upon her mind. She did indeed doubt 
that the adventure had happened, and wo dd doubt it until 
she could — as she put it to herself — “ get back into the dream 
again.” 

She had — or dreamed that she had — made an engagement 
with the man of the gondola for the hour before midnight. 

Night, he had said, was his day. So it was, and must 
always be with a ghost. Ghosts were allowed to “ walk ” by 
night, and at no other time. Ever since he had become a ghost 

128 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


(he did not say for how long, though he spoke wearily of 
many years) he had come out of his haunt within four walls 
to see the trees and the flowers and the lake, to take such ex- 
ercise as a ghost might be permitted, and to breathe — if a 
ghost did breathe — freer air than he could And in the minia- 
ture court with its sky roof. No one had ever seen him before; 
or if anyone had, ghosts were to be expected at Queen’s Quad- 
rangles: and at furthest he never went beyond the boundary 
of the park. If he could feel pleasure, rowing in the lake in 
the poor old gondola had been a pleasure, and he was glad 
that the new keeper of his secret did not wish him to give it 
up. But it would be a far greater pleasure if she would come 
to him again, and tell of things in the world that he had known 
before he became a ghost. He did not “ materialize until 
country folk had gone to their beds,” he had added with the 
sad, yet faintly humorous smile which Dolores seemed to see as 
plainly when he was absent as when she had been with him. 
Ten o’clock at earliest was his first hour of freedom, and at 
half past ten he would open the door under the terrace, trust- 
ing her completely. 

Real life was dim for Dolores after the vividness of her 
dream. She tried to take an intelligent interest in her moth- 
er’s talk of the people who were coming to visit the Duke of 
Bridgewater, and Captain de Grey’s extraordinary cleverness 
in organizing that visit. 

‘‘ It’s all for us. I can see that,” said Frances. “ He 
hinted the first day he called that everything was going to be 
different by and by. I think he’s marvelous. They say Eng- 
lishmen are stiff and standoffish, and selfish, unless they go 
over to America to live, like your father did ; but Captain de 
Grey couldn’t be nicer if he were an American. Why, he’s so 

129 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


cosmopolitan, he might be a New York man! I wonder what 
this Lady Desmond of his is like? I’ve looked her up in that 
Peerage I bought in London, and it seems she’s a viscountess, 
and a widow, about thirty-two or three. That isn’t quite as 
grand as being a countess, I suppose, but it comes higher up 
than a lot of other titles. And we shall get to know the duke. 
I’ve always thought I should rather like to know a duke.” 

So he chatted on that day, and Dolores listened, making 
appropriate answers. But never had hours seemed so long in 
passing, not even the days before Christmas when she had 
been an eager little child, looking forward to the emptying 
of a wondrous stocking. 

Nothing had been arranged with St. John de Grey about 
the afternoon ; but as the mother and daughter returned from 
a drive he trotted up to them on horseback, followed by Tod- 
dles. The Eliots had been to see a view which he had praised 
to Frances, and there was nothing more natural than that he 
should ride beside the carriage to hear what they thought 
of it. 

Frances, at least, thought so many things that his horse 
kept pace with theirs to the gates of Queen’s Quadrangles ; and 
then Frances asked him in. It was very late for tea, but they 
had not had it, and if he had not, they would be pleased to 
give him some. 

By the time tea was over it was nearly seven — only one 
hour before dinner; and then such a fierce shower came up 
that, as Frances exclaimed, it wasn’t fit for a dog or horse to 
be out, much less man. 

“ If you’d care to stay and dine,” she said, “ we shouldn’t 
mind your not being in your evening things. You really can’t 
go out in such weather.” 


130 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


So St. John stayed; and after dinner it seemed that he 
knew a wonderful new game of Patience, which, though in- 
tricate, could be taught in a single evening. Frances loved 
Patience, which, she had been brought up to believe, was not 
like “ playing cards ” in any other way. She threw herself 
heart and soul into the learning of the lesson, and time went 
on unheeded by all save Dolores. 

They sat in the small white drawing-room, and the girl’s 
eyes kept wandering to the beautiful old Louis Quartorze 
clock on the mantel. Ten o’clock : a quarter past : twenty min- 
utes past. Would he never go? ” 

Then the gold minute hand neared the half hour. What 
should she do ? How could she bear it to miss the appointment 
of which she had thought, to the exclusion of everything else, 
throughout that long day? 

She dared not try to slip away, for she could not es- 
cape without being seen and questioned. Besides, her mother 
would think her both unkind and rude. And if she made 
even the cleverest excuse for disappearing it would seem 
as if she were impatient for Captain de Grey to take his 
leave. 

There she had to sit, as if watching the dreadful game with 
interest, while all the time she would have liked to snatch the 
cards from St. John’s strong brown hands and throw them 
out of the window. 

If only she might yawn behind her hand and give him a 
gentle hint ! But Dolores had been reared with the profound- 
est respect for the laws of hospitality, and to yawn with the 
view of getting rid of a guest would have been a monstrous 
infringement of those rules. Besides, she was guiltily con- 
scious that, if she had not met a ghost who absorbed all her 

131 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


thoughts, the society of this flesh-and-blood young man would 
have passed the evening agreeably. 

At last, at last, he jumped up, pretending to be horrified 
that he had stayed so long. With alacrity, Dolores flew to 
touch the bell, and Captain de Grey’s horse was sent for. 
Toddles was patted, his master was shaken hands with, dozens 
of perfectly useless words were exchanged, and the guest was 
off. But still Dolores was not free. 

Frances wanted to talk over the evening, and to explain the 
great feature of this new Patience. She wished to know if 
Lolita didn’t think Captain de Grey nicer every time he came, 
and if she wasn’t looking forward to all sorts of gayeties when 
Lady Desmond and her party arrived. The girl was tempted 
to tell a fib and say that she was sleepy; but she knew 
(because her father had told her when she was very small, and 
she had never forgotten) that fibs were not only cowardly and 
mean, but vulgar, and that a lady could not be guilty of one, 
any more than she could eat with a knife. 

Luckily, a habit had been formed lately by which the 
daughter saw the mother to her room, and kissed her good- 
night there, instead of the contrary way which had obtained 
in earlier years. Nevertheless, it was eleven when the two 
parted, and Dolores knew not what to do. 

Half an hour ago it had been almost fine, and she would 
have had some sort of excuse for bidding a maid sit up to let 
her in after a moonlight stroll. But now clouds had gathered 
again; she dared not arouse gossip in the household by an 
eccentricity ; and unless she chose to risk being locked out, she 
must wait until the old butler had gone the rounds of the 
house, fastening doors and windows. Then she could slip out 
and leave a way of return open. 

132 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


By the time that old Soames had pottered off to bed it was 
a quarter past eleven, and nearly an hour later than the ap- 
pointment. Dolores told herself that, even if she had not 
dreamed the handsome, sad ghost of the lost court, he would 
have given her up long ago, and would be disgusted with 
her for breaking her promise. But when she hurried down to 
the marble terrace with rain spattering on her red tarn and 
dark-blue coat, the ghost was sitting in the gondola. 

“ Oh, you are real, then ! ” she exclaimed. “ I was so afraid 
I had dreamed you.” 

“ I wdsh you had,” he answered ; but his tones was lighter 
than it had been last night. “ Then, when you waked up, I 
should have ceased to be — a ghost. But I wouldn’t want you 
to wake till after we had a few more long talks — to tell the 
truth, I was beginning to be afraid I had dreamed ?/ow.” 

“ I do hope you didn’t think I was rude,” said Dolores. 

“ Rude.^ I should be a strangely idiotic ghost to connect 
such a word with you. I thought — well, I thought that you 
had thought better of it, that’s all. And I didn’t blame you, 
for you would have been right.” 

“ Right — in breaking a promise ” 

“ Men must keep their promises. Women have the privilege 
of forgetting theirs.” 

“ But I wanted to come,” said the girl. “ I’ve been think- 
ing of nothing else all day. And I’ve brought you a present. 
Are you going to ask me into your house ” 

“ It’s true, it’s very damp and dismal under this terrace,” 
replied the ghost. “ But — I’m wondering whether I ought — 
whether your mother ” 

“ I’m sure, if mother knew you,” said Dolores kindly, “ she 
would like me to pay you visits, because you must be so lone- 

13S 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

some, and mother can’t bear to be left alone for very long her- 
self. If you’ll take me to your bookroom again, I’ll stop with 
you for half an hour, if you’d really like to have me.” 

“ Really like to have you ! ” he repeated. “ You can’t im- 
agine what it is to me. Come, then. I had almost given you 
up, but I couldn’t bear to go back while there was any 
hope.” 

“ I wanted to be exactly on time,” said Dolores, “ but Cap- 
tain de Grey stopped to dinner, and he was showing mother 
how to play Patience. Mother likes him very much.” 

“ And you? ” 

“ Oh, I like him, too. He’s very good-looking, and so kind. 
He’s always thinking of something nice to do for us. Mother 
believes that he’s persuaded some friends of his — Lady Des- 
mond and several others — to come down to visit at the Duke 
of Bridgewater’s just for our sakes, to make things gayer.” 

“ Lady Desmond ! ” 

The name seemed to break from the ghost, and so changed 
was his voice that Dolores looked at him in surprise. They 
were on the steps inside the secret passage now. the door shut 
behind them, his lantern in his hand. 

“ Do you know Lady Desmond? ” asked the girl, forget- 
ting for an instant that this man was not as other men. 

“ I do not know her,” he answered steadily. “ I have been 
dead for countless years. Once — when I was alive, I knew a 
lady of that name. But it was long, long ago.” 

“ Yet you look young,” said Dolores. 

“ I — young? ” he repeated, as if startled. “ I am as old as 
sorrow ! ” 

“ I wish you needn’t be so sad ! ” the girl sighed. 

“ Thank you,” he answered, as they walked on together 
134 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


along the narrow passage which brought her slim shoulder 
close to his arm. “ Your wish makes me a little less sad.” 

“ I’ve brought you a present,” said Dolores again. “ When 
we come to your house, I’ll show it to you.” 

“ A present ? ” 

“ Yes. But I’m not going to tell you what it is, because it’s 
a surprise.” 

She laughed, half under her breath, in a pretty, childish 
way she had, and glanced up at him. His eyes were on her, 
and he did not look at all like a ghost now, even in the waver- 
ing lantern light. 

Rain was falling on the marble pavement of the lost court, 
pattering crisply down on the great green fans of the palms, 
and the thick leaves of lemon and orange trees, which glit- 
tered in the light that streamed from every window in the 
ground floor. Both doors stood ajar, but the ghost led 
Dolores toward that which opened into a room she had not 
entered last night, a room different from any she had ever 
seen before. 

“ How beautiful ! ” she exclaimed. “ It’s not like England 
or America. What country is it like.?^ ” 

“ Spain,” the ghost answered. 

“ I feel as if I ought to have known that,” the girl said, 
“ because, though I’ve never been to Spain, I have visions of 
it always, and feel almost as if I knew it quite well. My 
father’s grandmother was Spanish, and I’m named after her. 
He used to tell me things about Spain, just as he used about 
England. Were you ever there, when — when ” 

“When I was alive?” he finished, as she paused. “Yes, 
I’ve seen Spain. I used to go there and paint pictures.” 

Dolores looked about with eager admiration. The walls of 

135 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


the small but well-proportioned room were of oak, as in the 
adjoining room with the many bookshelves. Here they were 
hung with wonderful old embroidery and brocade, stiff with 
gold and silver, and there were three or four pictures of 
strange, sunlit towns, and wild mountain scenery. There was 
one picture, too, which seemed to represent a fairy palace; 
and all were pained with originality and spirit as well as 
supreme skill. 

“ Did you paint these ? ” she asked shyly. 

“ Yes,” he said. 

“ Then you must be a great artist.” 

“ The ghost of a man who loved art, that’s all. But these 
things are a comfort to me, especially that old sketch of the 
Alhambra. They bring back memories of life.” 

“ And — and you never paint now ? ” 

“ Can a ghost paint? ” 

“ I think I’ve heard of ghost pictures,” said the girl 
gravely. 

“ I’ve never cared to try. I’ve lost interest.” 

‘‘ When you have such splendid talent? Oh, how could you? 
That’s like losing interest in your own soul.” 

“ So I have, completely — my own soul and what seems to 
you to be my body. I should have destroyed the semblance of 
it long ago if it had not been — for a promise — a vow.” 

“ It makes me miserable to hear you say that,” said Dolores. 
“ And to think you have lost interest in things. Can nothing 
ever bring it back to you again ? ” 

He gave her a quick look which had all the old tragedy and 
a new fear in it. “ If anything should bring it back, what I 
suffered in the past would be as joy to what I should suffer 
then.” 


136 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

Dolores’s eyes opened wide. “ What can you mean ? ” she 
asked. 

‘‘ Let us think of something else,” he said. “ That way 
madness lies. You said you had brought something for me. 
A suitable present for a ghost ” 

Dolores, vaguely saddened and puzzled, yet anxious, above 
all, not to hurt him, did not persist with the subject which 
he put aside. 

“ I am ashamed of my poor little present, now I know you 
can paint so gloriously,” she stammered. “ Only — I thought 
— I wondered if you might amuse yourself sometimes with 
this.” She took from a large pocket of her cloak a japanned 
box of water colors, and a small sketching block. “ How silly 
it does seem now. But I had this of my own. I bought it in 
London, thftiking I would try to paint bits of the garden when 
I came here. My wretched little daubs were so unworthy, 
though, that I couldn’t bear to go on. And then, to-day — 
but when you said those pictures on the wall were yours, I 
hoped you’d forget about the surprise I spoke of ; and I meant 
not to mention it again if you hadn’t. I don’t suppose you 
ever cared for water colors anyway, and ” 

“ I loved them once. And now — will you throw off your 
cloak and let me sketch you ? Just a little sketch. If I haven’t 
forgotten everything I once knew it won’t take many min- 
utes.” 

Without a word, Dolores sprang up from the chair in which 
she had been sitting, and slipped off the big blue traveling 
cloak which had enveloped her. The slender, girlish figure in 
the soft white dinner dress stood out like a delicate statuette 
of marble against the old gold and crimson brocade which 
draped the wall behind her. The little oval face with its great 

137 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


eyes of black velvet, and the soft flush of rose color on ivory 
skin, was beautiful as perhaps it had never been before; for 
Dolores’s prettiness changed with her moods. Sometimes she 
was strikingly, almost pathetically lovely; again she was 
merely a pretty young girl with fine eyes, the perfect com- 
plexion of youth, and a cloud of dark hair. To-night she was 
radiant, like an illuminated flower. The man’s eyes burned as 
he looked at her, as they might have burned in worship for 
a picture by a great master suddenly unveiled. 

“ Yes,” he said slowly, “ I think you will make me remem- 
ber some things I believed that I had forgotten.” 

“ Not things you’d rather forget, I hope.? ” she asked anx- 
iously. 

“ I don’t know — I don’t know. But I thank you. I do know 
that I thank you. Stand as you are, if you will. I want to 
sketch you like that.” 

She stood still, watching him. He went to the far end of 
the room, where a carved, black oak table stood. On it was a 
crystal jug of water, and he poured some into a glass. Then 
he came back and began to paint with the box of colors open 
on a curious stand under which was a brazier. There were no 
coals in the brazier now, but Dolores wondered if he used it 
to give him warmth in cold weather, for the room had no fire- 
place; and now she remembered that there was none in the 
room she had seen last night. Of course, she said to herself, 
since the lost court was made as a hiding place it would not 
do for smoke to be seen ascending. She tried not to be indis- 
creetly curious about the secret which this strange place held, 
for the secret was the ghost’s secret, and since he wished her 
to ask no questions, she must strive not to ask them even of 
herself, in her own mind. One day, if she were allowed to go on 

138 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


visiting him, and at last become his trusted friend — perhaps 
he would tell her some things ; yet if he did not, she must still 
be satisfied with this wonderful experience so like a dream. 
But at least there would be no disloyalty to the ghost in find- 
ing out to-morrow, if she were clever enough, how this minia- 
ture house within a house was hidden between the walls of the 
great mansion whose formation suggested no mystery to an 
uninitiated eye. Knowing of its existence as she now did, she 
might be able to puzzle out the plan. 

This thought was taking shape when the sketch began; 
but soon it was superseded, for the prisoner was even more 
interesting to her than his beautiful prison. 

Last night, though the ghost’s expression had haunted her, 
she would not have been able to describe him accurately. He 
had appeared with such suddenness ; she had been so startled 
and astonished at first, and so tremulously excited throughout 
their whole interview, that she had had no time to think what 
he was like as a man. Besides, the library had been less 
brightly lighted than was this richly colored room, and she 
had known only that the amazing apparition was dark and 
handsome, with a face that was still young, though worn and 
tragic. 

Now, as he rapidly sketched, she saw that he had dark 
chestnut hair, with a ripple in it that made the nobly shaped 
head look as if it were carved in bronze. She saw that his eyes 
were gray, not black, though the straight brows were dark, 
and that his skin was of that dead white which goes with ab- 
sence from sunlight. To-night, as last night, he wore evening 
dress, and something about the clothes struck Dolores as pecu- 
liar, though she was not sure in what particular they differed 
from things which other men wore — men of fashion, who were 

139 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


not ghosts. She resolved to look carefully at St. John de Grey 
when she and her mother dined at the vicar’s. Then, perhaps, 
she would know what the difference was. But, though it was 
certain that Captain de Grey was a well-dressed man, and a 
man of distinguished appearance, he was almost plain com- 
pared with this tragic figure, this ghost who haunted the lost 
court at Queen’s Quadrangles. And in thinking of De Grey, 
she felt something almost like resentment against him, because 
he was so brown and hearty and happy, so altogether more 
fortunate than her mysterious new friend — her “dream 
friend,” as she called him to herself. 

“ The sketch is finished,” said the ghost, startling the girl 
from a reverie. She had forgotten for the moment that she 
was posing as a model, and had stood statue-still only because 
she had been too absorbed to stir. 

He brought the sketching block to her, and they looked at 
it together, his bronze head bent near to the black cloud of 
her hair. Dolores’s things were always kept in drawers lined 
with sachets of orris root ; and if he had not been a ghost he 
must have been conscious of the faint perfume which, to those 
who knew her, seemed part of the girl’s personality. 

“ It is beautiful,” she said, “ far too beautiful for me.” 

“ I don’t think so,” he answered. “ Am I to give it to you, 
or — will you allow me to keep it.f^ ” 

“ Would you care to.? ” asked Dolores. 

“ Very much.” He spoke quietly, almost coldly, and his 
words conveyed no flattery ; yet somehow Dolores knew that 
he did really want her picture very much, even more than he 
cared to tell her; and she was glad. 

“ Keep it, then,” she said, and put the sketching block 
back into his hand. Their fingers touched, and a queer little 

140 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


thrill ran through the girl’s veins, which seemed to go on and 
on, not stopping until it reached her heart. 

“ I must go,” she exclaimed suddenly. 

He did not urge her to stop for a few minutes more, as she 
half hoped he would, though she did not mean to stay. 

“ Yes, you must go,” he said. “ But — ^just a word first. 
There’s a thing I should like you to know, and since you are 
sorry to see me sad, not realizing that it’s a ghost’s doom to 
be sad, you’ll be pleased, perhaps. It’s this: you’ve brought 
me something wonderful. And I shall keep it with me, when 
you’ve gone, even if you never come back, for now you’ve 
given it to me, you can’t take it away.” 

“ What is it that I have brought ? ” she asked. 

“ I can’t tell you in words, if you don’t understand without. 
But did you ever read Hans Christian Andersen’s story of the 
mermaid who became human ” 

“ Oh, yes, it is the one I love best ! ” the girl cried. 

“ Well, if a ghost could become human once more, I think 
the talisman you’ve brought would turn me into a man 
again. That’s the best I can do toward explaining what I 
mean. Now, I’m going to take you home by another way 
that you don’t know, so that you won’t have to go out in 
the rain.” 

“ And you’ll promise to care about things again. — to take 
up your painting.? ” 

“ Yes, since you promise me your encouragement.” 

“You shall have that — oh, as much as you want! How I 
wish you would give me a little advice about my drawing. 
Maybe with your help I might do something — if you wouldn’t 
think it too much bother.? ” 

“ Too much bother I ” he laughed out, almost wearily. 

141 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ Would it be too much bother for a lame man to walk, for a 
blind man to see? ” 

“ Then you are to be my teacher. And I’ll come to you 
every night that you care to have me, unless I have to go 
somewhere with mother, or we have people with us who stop 
too long. We hardly know anyone now, except Captain de 
Grey, but I think we shall soon.” 

“ Yes, you will know a great many people soon,” he said, 
“ and there will be aHhousand claims on your time. You will 
have engagements all day, and even when you happen to have 
a free evening, you’ll be too tired to waste on a wretched ghost 
in his prison the hour you ought to give to your first beauty 
sleep.” 

“ Wait and see,” said Dolores. “ If those days of many en- 
gagements come, I shall have all the more to tell you about. I 
shall have almost as much news as the last edition of an even- 
ing paper.” 

“ Yes, about your games of tennis and your dances — with 
other men, who are not ghosts. I’m not sure how well I should 
stand that. Ghosts aren’t famous for their unselfishness. But 
to-morrow night you will come? ” 

“ To-morrow night without fail.” 

“ Come, then,” he said. “ If I let you stay longer I shall 
not deserve to have you again.” 

She started as if to go to the door, but he pushed back a 
fold of the red and gold brocade which draped the north end 
of the room from floor to ceiling. Behind it Dolores saw a low 
door which was just visible in the oak paneling. Taking up 
the lighted lantern which he had set down on coming in, the 
ghost opened the door to show a dark and narrow passage. 

“ This is tunnelled out in the eastern wall of the house,” he 

142 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


said. “ It will lead you into the long gallery, and so to the big 
hall. We must speak softly, if at all, in the passage, for voices 
echo strangely. I will go ahead, and let you out.” 

“ Why, the wall must be enormously thick to have such a 
passage through it ! ” exclaimed Dolores. 

“ It’s twelve feet thick,” he said. “ Don’t you know how 
deep the side windows are in the library, and the steward’s 
room.? There is a kind of passage leading to each.” 

“ I remember I thought those side windows in the library 
so quaint when I first saw them. But I’ve only peeped once 
into the steward’s room. Lady Rosamund has it now. You 
must — I suppose you knew Lady Rosamund — when you were 
in the world.? ” 

“ That is so long ago I have had time to forget most things. 
But ghosts have their ways of knowing those who live in the 
house that they haunt. You will come out at the end of the 
secret passage, close to the door of the steward’s room in the 
long gallery. You must go past that door very softly and 
quickly. Now follow me, and in five minutes you can be in 
your own room.” 

He bent his head, and passed through the low doorway 
behind the brocade. Dolores flitted after him, neither speak- 
ing, their footfalls inaudible. She counted fifteen short steps 
along a level and then his stopping brought her also to a stop. 
There was a faint click, no louder than the cocking of a well- 
oiled revolver, and her guide moved aside to let her pass, still 
in silence. The light of his lantern showed her an opening in 
the rough stone wall. She slipped past him and out into the 
space beyond, which was dimly lit by some unseen lamp. A 
glance showed her that she was in the corridor known as the 
“ long gallery,” which ran from the east end of the house as 

143 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


far as the door of the dining-hall which was opposite her as 
she stood, though too distant to be seen in the dusk. The great 
central hall, into which this corridor ran, was always lighted 
at night by a big hanging lamp almost as old as the house 
itself ; and thus the “ long gallery,” to right and left, was 
dimly illuminated. 

When Dolores had made sure of her surroundings — the 
work of a few seconds — she turned to throw a parting glance 
at her guide; but to her astonishment she was looking at a 
blank wall of paneled oak. No door was visible in it, but so 
near that she could have touched it by putting out her hand, 
was the closed door of the room occupied by Lady Rosamund 
Vane-Eliot. 


144 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 


OUTSIDE THINGS 

T hough it was long after midnight when Dolores went 
to sleep, she was awake early next morning, and down 
before the table had been laid for breakfast in the 
great dining hall. She had often noticed the curious difference 
which existed between the library windows looking on to the 
east terrace, and all the other windows of the house, except 
those of the steward’s and priest’s rooms, neither of which had 
she ever really entered ; but knowing nothing of architecture, 
she had not wondered much what the reason might be for this 
difference. 

Now, however, she asked herself whether the immensely 
thick eastern wall might not have been planned solely to hide 
the secret of the third court. The thickness of this wall must 
contain four of the hidden rooms, two on the ground floor and 
two above. As for the room of the many book shelves, which 
she had seen first, Dolores’s present idea was, that it probably 
lay behind a room for old books which opened off the library 
at the back and was lighted only from a window in the cor- 
ridor. This little room — which had fascinated her ever since 
her knowledge of Queen’s Quadrangles began — was so dusky 
that to a careless eye its depth appeared indefinite. Until last 
night, she had vaguely supposed it to be divided by a wall 
from the priest’s wardrobe which opened off the long gallery, 
but now she guessed that the secret room of the bookshelves 

145 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

and the miniature court of the fountain must lie between. One 
would only have to climb to the roof of the house, she thought, 
to look down on the third quadrangle with its pretty fountain, 
lying as it must (with its suite of rooms round two sides) 
between the eastern wall and the corridor that ran along the 
court of the cypresses. 

What a strange thing, the girl said to herself, that in all 
the hundreds of years since Queen’s Quadrangles was built, no 
curious chimney-sweep had discovered the secret of the third 
court! It seemed to her that such a discovery would have 
been easy enough, and she wandered out on the dew-wet 
grass of the lawn below the south terrace, to look curiously 
up at the chimneys, gables, and battlements of the wonderful 
old house. Then she saw, what she must have seen often before 
without observing it particularly. A wall-like erection of 
brick ran across the roof from north to south, east of the 
cypress court. This was so high that no chimney sweep, even 
if he had spy’s work given him to do, would be able to succeed 
in climbing it without a ladder. On the other side of the house 
rose another wall of the same height ; but Dolores believed that 
it had been placed there merely to match the one which 
screened the lost court, with the view of disarming any pos- 
sible suspicion. 

Now that Dolores knew the secret, and was aware of the 
hidden door at the end of the long gallery, it was com- 
paratively easy to make these deductions ; but she could 
see how even those who passed their whole lives at Queen’s 
Quadrangles might never have suspected the existence of a 
third court. 

Evidently, at some remote period in the history of the place, 
it had been imperative for the owner of the house to spread a 

146 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 


report that, if there had ever been a third court it had been 
done away with in alterations. 

Certain it was that, unless there had been a secret to hide, 
the little concealed quadrangle and its mysterious suite of 
rooms would never have been made. If, again, the same 
strange need had not arisen, masters of Queen’s Quadrangles 
might have been proud to show so unique a feature, well cal- 
culated to enhance both the historic and romantic interest of 
the place. 

One day, some time ago, Dolores had found in the library 
an ancient book with quaint illustrations. It was called 
“ Stories and Legends of Famous Old Houses,” and some of 
its grewsome tales had kept the girl awake, shivering de- 
liciously, the night after she had read them. One story in 
particular had impressed her; and now, as she stood in the 
door of the book room, behind the library, thinking of what 
might lie just beyond the wainscoted wall, it crept back into 
her mind, that legend of a secret, and a never-ending curse 
upon an ancient Scottish castle. 

Always the heir was told the ghastly thing on the day 
when he came of age, and after that was never seen to smile. 
He was taken to a secret room, and there shown a man who 
was of noble and youthful appearance, but was in reality hun- 
dreds of years old, as evil in heart as he was beautiful in face. 
This man, who had once been lord of the castle, had committed 
a terrible crime, and an old woman whose fair daughter he had 
ruined before murdering by starvation had cursed him and 
his house forever. “ May you live and suffer for as many 
years as you gave my child moments of agony,” she had cried. 
“ May you grow wickeder and more wicked till the day of 
your death, so that those under you may rise up in authority 

147 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

over you and put you away lest you do evil to them and 
theirs.” 

And the woman’s prayer had been answered. When the 
great lord’s brother could endure his villainies no longer, they 
tried to put him to death secretly. But he could not die. The 
wound made by the knife of a brother next in age bled always, 
without ceasing, and festered, so that the stricken wretch 
w^rithed and shrieked with the anguish of his hurt. Yet he 
lived on; and then the other brothers did what they could, 
in their turn, to put him out of his pain and sin. But still, 
though all the w'ounds of a dozen deep stabs poured ruddy 
streams, the man did not die. At last they put him in a secret 
room, where he stayed through the long years, never growing 
older to look at, and remaining always glorious to the eye, 
save for the red blood that welled and stained his white shirt 
where his heart once had been. 

This story had been peculiarly horrible to the girl’s im- 
aginative mind, but now she shivered and grew sick at the 
thought of it. 

The hidden man of Queen’s Quadrangles was not wicked, 
she would have staked her whole life upon that belief of hers. 
But he spoke so mysteriously of himself! He would not say 
how many years the lost court had been his world ; though he 
hinted that he had been there so long he could hardly remem- 
ber what life had been before. 

Supposing that, after all, he was even more mysterious 
than she wished to think I What if there were more things in 
heaven and earth than she had ever dreamed of in her poor 
little philosophy, and he were really a supernatural being, 
the prisoner of a curse like the man of the hideous old story? 
What if he had lived in the lost court for more than the al- 

148 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

lotted span of a man’s years — a century, perhaps, and no one 
knew that he was there, not even Lady Rosamund? 

The existence of the court and his presence in it were both 
so astounding that a little more of mystery scarcely raised 
a new emotion. It was possible to believe almost anything — 
except that the man was in himself evil. 

Dolores was absent-minded during breakfast and through- 
out the day. Her eyes were dream-haunted, but she looked 
happy, and Frances thought adoringly that she had never 
seen the girl so beautiful. Her complexion was so dazzlingly 
clear that it was as if a rose flame burned behind a thin sheet 
of ivory. “ Can it be that she’s beginning to care for Captain 
de Grey ? ” Frances wondered pleasantly. 

She loved romance, though she was not in herself romantic ; 
and she had always vaguely feared that she might be too 
lenient if Dolores gave her heart to some undesirable but fas- 
cinating man. Such a danger would be forever averted if the 
child should be drawn to St. John de Grey, for Frances was 
sure that his interest in Dolores was no idle fancy to pass the 
time. He had fallen in love with her, and by and by he would 
ask her to marry him. 

What a delightful vista that thought opened ! An engage- 
ment at Queen’s Quadrangles would be an idyll, just such an 
idyll as would suit Dolores’s poetic personality. Frances had 
always expected that, when love came to the girl, it would be 
a great romance, not an ordinary affair such as satisfied com- 
monplace girls. But this would be worthy even of Dolores. 
She had plenty of money, and if Captain de Grey had not 
much of that, he had everything else. Dolores would be the 
Hon. Mrs. de Grey; and some day St. John might become 
an earl, as his elder brother had no children. 

149 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


Already Frances saw herself writing letters of announce- 
ment to relatives (of whom she had few) and friends (of whom 
she had many) in America. She took credit to herself for re- 
sisting the temptation to question Dolores as to her feelings, 
for it was a temptation. But instead of being concerned about 
the girl’s abstraction, she considered it the best of signs, and 
rejoiced in it. 

It was arranged that Dolores should be admitted by the 
ghost of the lost court through the door under the marble 
terrace, and let out by way of the long gallery, where at that 
late hour there would be no danger of meeting anyone. On 
this third visit she took with her some beautiful roses, to show 
the lonely prisoner that she had thought of him during the 
day; and he was able to prove that he also had thought of 
her. With the water colors she had given him, he had sketched 
for her the charming little court with its marble naiad glim- 
mering against a background of palms and lemon trees; and 
it touched the girl that he did not even ask her to let no one 
See the picture. Whatever he might be, whatever strange 
tragedy of life or death had drafted him to this imprisonment, 
certain it was that discovery would bring a catastrophe as 
mysterious, perhaps more dreadful than, his present fate; yet 
he placed himself in her hands with perfect faith; and the 
pathos of this unquestioning trust almost brought tears to 
Dolores’s eyes. 

The small sketch was as clearly the work of a great artist 
as the large oil paintings on the wall ; and the presentment of 
sunlight on the fountain and the marble floor gave Dolores 
an odd little stab of pain. She had not thought of tliis hidden 
place in daylight ; and seeing it as the artist had seen it with 
the midday sunshine prying into its secret, suggested a long, 

150 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 


endless chain of hours passed in loneliness by this man who 
called himself a ghost. 

He had said that “ ghosts had no existence by day,” and 
he was a ghost; yet there had been days as well as nights 
for him, days of sun and rain, but always days of sorrow, as 
the many years dragged on. “ Oh, what have you done with 
the years ? ” was the question that sprang to her lips. But 
she did not utter it. The very thought was intolerable ; that 
he had been here, shut up in prison, a ghost, through bleak 
years that had been full of daily delights for her! It seemed 
that, somehow, she must make up to him for all that he had 
missed, for all that she had had, which he had been denied. 

The sketch he had made for her gave her pain as well as 
pleasure, but she spoke only of the pleasure, and it was ter- 
ribly pathetic to see how her appreciation pleased him whose 
genius should be bringing him praise from all the world. 

“ I wish you could have painted yourself, sitting on the 
marble seat,” she said. “ If you were there I should have liked 
the picture still better.” 

“ Would you.^ ” he asked. “ Then leave me the sketch, and 
when you come again you shall see what you shall see.” 

So she left the sketch, but several nights passed before she 
was able to make another visit. The lost court was now the 
heart of the world for her, but things were happening in the 
outside world, and she was forced to be in them. The dinner 
at the vicarage was given, and there was a guest who had not 
been included in the plan at first. This was Lord Tilling- 
bourne, the invalid Duke of Bridgewater’s only son, who had 
arrived on a visit to his father, had seen Dolores Eliot in the 
village of Clere, had heard of the proposed dinner, and there- 
upon practically asked Lady Ermyntrude for an invitation. 

151 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


He was very young, and his elders’ objections to call on 
any tenants of Queen’s Quadrangles had little weight with 
him. While Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot had lived her lonely 
life there, the place had awakened no interest save a vague, 
morbid curiosity in the Marquis of Tillingbourne’s mind. But 
it was quite different since he had met in the village one of the 
prettiest girls he had ever seen, and learned that she was an 
American heiress. He had now every intention of going to 
Queen’s Quadrangles, and going often; but before he could 
do that it was necessary to meet Miss Eliot and her mother. 
He wished that girls had no mothers, as it bored him to be 
nice to any woman over forty, unless she were a fashionable 
beauty or an actress, but he was ready to be as nice as neces- 
sary to Mrs. Eliot, for her daughter’s sake. Besides, it would 
be worth while for the fun of cutting out De Grey, even if 
there were nothing else in it; for if De Grey thought him 
“ rather a 3"oung beast,” he thought De Grey “ a conceited 
prig,” who fancied that nobody except himself knew anything, 
or had ever done anything worth doing. 

Lady Ermyntrude did not think Tillingbourne a beast. 
Though she was not like Mrs. Calendar, to whom no man 
above a baronet could be beyond the pale, she was faintly at- 
tracted rather than repelled by the young man’s almost brutal 
virility. His coarseness of fiber was manliness for her ; and she 
thought his curly yellow hair, over a low forehead, his bril- 
liant, impertinent blue eyes, his full, bright-red lips, and his 
great tanned throat almost Apollolike. He was a personage 
of importance in society (though he slighted it in favor of 
theatrical and other amusing circles), therefore Lady Ermyn- 
trude would in any case have been willing to please him ; but 
she did not want her brother to marry Dolores Eliot, and she 

152 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

was glad to help Tillingbourne as St. John’s rival with the 
American girl. 

Gladys Gaines was at least as great an heiress as Dolores, 
and Sir George Gaines, in buying his magnificent estates, had 
obtained with them the lordship of the manor. His was the 
living enjoyed by Lady Ermyntrude’s husband, and after the 
duke he was the great man of the neighborhood. Once, the 
king had paid him a visit, and it would be more advantageous 
in every way for St. John to have Gladys instead of Dolores 
as his wife. Lady Ermyntrude was strongly of opinion that 
the British were the only people who really mattered in the 
scheme of the universe, and she would inwardly have resented 
a foreign prince taking precedence over an English earl. As 
for Americans, she could hardly conceive that they had a civ- 
ilization, or that they might be gentlefolk by birth ; and she 
had only consented to show any attention to the Eliots because 
it would be unpleasant to offend St. John. She was fond of 
him in her cold, remote way; and then, he was godfather to 
her only boy, whom he had promised to “ see through ” Sand- 
hurst, when the time should come. Altogether, she was bound 
to please her brother when she could ; but she had the best of 
excuses for inviting Lord Tillingbourne; indeed, as she ex- 
plained to St. John, it couldn’t be helped. 

The dinner was to have been a family dinner, except for the 
Eliots, for as Lady Ermyntrude protested to her brother, it 
was too difficult, in the circumstances, to get people to come. 
No one wished to be inveigled into calling on the Eliots at 
Queen’s Quadrangles, therefore no one wanted to know them. 
But then, after all, it appeared that somebody did want to 
know them, somebody in particular, no less a somebody than 
Lord Tillingbourne ; and it was through the vicar himself that 

153 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

the important young man had heard of the prospective 
dinner. 

“ Jove, that was a pretty girl I just passed, Heckshaw,” 
Tillingbourne had said, buttonholing the vicar in the High 
Street of Clere, through which he had the boyish vanity to 
enjoy walking, on account of the flutter of attention he in- 
variably excited. “ Who is she.?* Stopping at any house here- 
abouts ” 

Then the vicar had answered that she was a Miss Eliot, the 
daughter of a rich American lady, and that she and her 
mother were coming to dine next night at the vicarage. On 
hearing this piece of news, Tillingbourne remembered that he 
hadn’t called on Lady Ermyntrude since the time before last 
that he was on leave, and recalling this fact he had turned to 
walk home with Mr. Heckshaw. 

Without the slightest shyness he brought the conversation 
round to the tenants of Queen’s Quadrangles, got it conflrmed 
by Lady Ermyntrude that they were dining with her, and 
then said, “ You might ask me. The pater and I are dull as 
ditchwater together. He’s just got out a novel that I’d rather 
die than read, and I suppose nobody would publish if he 
weren’t a duke. He’s so excited waiting for notices to come in 
that he jumps if anyone speaks to him.” 

Having invited himself to meet her^ Lord Tillingbourne 
could feel pretty sure of sitting next the girl who made it 
worth while to dine at the parson’s, and he was not disap- 
pointed. Of course he was obliged to take in his hostess, but 
he had Dolores Eliot on his other side. She had gone in with 
De Grey, but St. J ohn got little enough chance to talk to her. 
Tillingbourne saw to that, and if Lady Ermyntrude had not 
thoughtfully provided her brother with Glady Gaines, giving 

154 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 


Gladys no other resource than the curate, St. John would 
have had to do far more listening than talking. 

For him the dinner was a failure, and Dolores would have 
found it pleasanter without Lord Tillingbourne. Though she 
thought him handsome, in a pagan kind of way, that would 
have gone well with a laurel wreath and a tiger skin, his stare 
and his free and easy manner half frightened her. She had 
never met a man of his sort before, and it seemed to her that 
he was like a great, spoiled child. He appeared to think that 
he had only to ask for a thing to have it, and the girl felt an 
odd impulse to thwart and contradict him. 

Once or twice at the table she half turned her shoulder upon 
the young man, in order to speak to St. John de Grey ; but, if 
she had known it, she could not have chosen a way more cal- 
culated to enhance her value with Lord Tillingbourne. He 
was only twenty-four, but already he was sick of being flat- 
tered by girls and their mothers ; and although he was an- 
noyed at Dolores’s indifference and meant to punish her for it 
some day, he liked her more the less she appeared to like him. 

As for Frances, she still preferred Captain de Grey, but she 
was almost childishly pleased with Tillingbourne’s boldly 
shown admiration for Dolores. This was the girl’s first 
grown-up success, for they had been in mourning for over a 
year before coming abroad. Of course she would be pleased to 
see Lord Tillingbourne, she answered when he asked if she 
would let him come to Queen’s Quadrangles ; and she could 
have sung for joy because Dolores’s pretty tennis and boat- 
ing and dancing dresses would perhaps not be wasted after all. 

They did not reach home until nearly eleven, and then 
Frances would stop with Dolores until the girl had undressed, 
talking over the dinner party. She feasted her eyes on her 

155 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


daughter’s beautiful hair when it had been let down, and 
thought what a wife such a charming young creature would 
be for any man, were he a mere “ Honorable ” or a marquis. 

Next day. Lady Desmond arrived with several friends to 
make the expected visit to the duke. St. John de Grey brought 
her over to call on Mrs. and Miss Eliot, thus carrying out his 
plan ; but it had not been part of the plan that Lord Tilling- 
bourne should be of the party. 

Dolores was out when they came, sketching a comer of the 
marble terrace, with its white reflection in the blue lake. The 
spot meant so much to her now that she grudged being torn 
away when a footman appeared with a summons from her 
mother. But the name of Lady Desmond had an interest not 
unconnected with matters which absorbed most of the girl’s 
thoughts, and crossing the lawn to the house, she was con- 
scious that her heart was beating fast. 

The one she thought of had repeated the name after her, 
the night of their second meeting, and his eyes had had a 
stormy look as he admitted having once known a Lady Des- 
mond — ‘‘ when he was alive, many years ago.” 

Remembering this, Dolores felt suddenly eager to meet 
Lady Desmond, excited at the thought of seeing her. 


156 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


LADY DESMOND 

T hey were sitting in the fountain court, where Frances 
was fond of having tea served when the weather was 
warm, and Lord Tillingbourne was explaining the 
duke’s absence with a rather cruel enjoyment of his parent’s 
peculiarities. 

“ The pater’s lying crushed under the weight of a bad 
notice for his last novel,” he was announcing in a' loud, dis- 
tinct voice as Dolores came within earshot. “ The papers used 
to say his books weren’t to be taken seriously, so from trying 
to add to the gayety of nations he became as gloomy as a 
walking funeral, and slightly immoral — I mean in print. 
Now the journalist chaps say, what a pity it is the Duke of 
Bridgewater has ‘ forsaken his old light manner ’ ; so the poor 
old man’s prostrate between two stools. I’m his proxy, though, 
and he wants you and Miss Eliot to come over and dine — and 
do all sorts of things. But Lady Desmond is going to talk to 
you about that.” 

He had got no further when Dolores appeared, coming into 
the court from the great hall, her figure very slim and girlish 
against a rich dark background of dimly seen splendors. 

Lord Tillingbourne instantly dropped the thread of his 
remarks. And if the girl had been prone to self-consciousness 
she would have divined that not for him and Captain de Grey 

157 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


alone did the curtain go up only for her entrance, but that she 
was the leading character on the stage for Lady Desmond also. 

But Dolores had no thought for herself at the moment. She 
was thinking of the woman whose name had wrought a quick 
and sudden change upon a face already tragic. If Lady 
Desmond had wondered about the young person for whose 
sake she had been summoned to Surrey, the young person 
had wondered still more about Lady Desmond. It was with a 
shock of surprise therefore that she recognized the interest- 
ing visitor. 

There was not even a question in the girl’s mind : “ Where 
have I seen her before ? ” She knew at once that it had been at 
Claridge’s Hotel ; that this was the lady who had cut the slip 
out of Country Life — the lead to whose curiosity-rousing 
actions she and Frances indirectly owed their possession of 
Queen’s Quadrangles. 

At Claridge’s, that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon of early 
August when most of the world was at Cowes, Lady Des- 
mond had been quietly dressed in gray, with a toque of silver 
tulle and silver thistles on the dark copper of her burnished 
hair. She had looked stately and rather splendid; but on 
this warm, Indian summer day, in white lace and muslin, with 
a big leghorn hat of picture shape heavy with roses, she ap- 
peared less dignified and much younger. Then, Dolores had 
taken her for a woman of thirty-five or six. To-day she ap- 
peared at least half a dozen years younger; nevertheless, in 
the searching white light of the fountain court, there was a 
hint of artificiality in her beauty. 

If she were “ made up,” it was so well done as to puzzle the 
eyes of a rival ; but even to Dolores’s unsophisticated eyes the 
long oval of Lady Desmond’s face was of a marvelous camelia 

158 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


pallor, the large, though bewitching mouth redder than most 
women’s mouths, and the shadow under the long black lashes 
very brown. 

Yet to the girl it was a wonderful face, with its greenish- 
gray eyes flecked with red-brown spots just the color of the 
dark chestnut hair. As she met the eyes, fixed critically upon 
her, she was both fascinated and repelled, as she had been in a 
less degree at Claridge’s. 

For a second or two she thought that the gray-green eyes 
(which slanted up ever so little at the outer corners under 
level brows) were like cats’ eyes, and that they gave her a 
cat look, such a look as a beautiful, petted Persian gives some- 
times before it darts its claws. But then Lady Desmond 
smiled, and the impression passed; for the lady’s smile was 
famous, and when she liked, could win women as well as men. 

There was no spontaneity in it, but there was amazing 
charm. People who had heard of the celebrated smile, before 
meeting Lady Desmond, watched for it eagerly; but it did 
not come always, for she had other smiles which were good 
enough for ordinary folk and ordinary occasions: the famous 
one was very special. 

She thought Dolores worthy of the sniile, and gave it : her 
eyes lighting first, illumining her whole face; then the red 
lips parting, and instead of lifting at the corners, droop- 
ing sweetly until it was as if they pushed two small dimples 
into being — dimples close to her mouth, and so tiny that 
they might each have been indented with the head of a 
pin. 

It was nothing to describe, but it was wonderful to see, and 
a tremendous compliment to have it done for one’s sole benefit. 

“ Come and sit by me. I want to talk to you,” said Lady 

159 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


Desmond, and Dolores came. She felt that she would have 
been obliged to come if her feet had been bare and the floor 
red hot. Also, when Lady Desmond asked her questions, in 
a low voice — rather too young to match her personality, but 
honey-sweet — she knew that she would have answered even if 
she had wished to be silent. 

“ Have we met somewhere before ” the elder woman asked. 
“ Strange, I can’t remember ; yet I feel I’ve often seen your 
face.” 

“We didn’t exactly meet. But — I — we — ” stammered the 
girl, wishing for some reason which she could not easily have 
defined that Lady Desmond might not recall that day at 
Claridge’s. “ I saw you once somewhere, at quite a distance. 
I didn’t think, though, that you saw us. You didn’t seem to 
look at us at all.” 

“ One doesn’t seem to look at people, does one, unless one 
knows them ? ” said Lady Desmond. “ When I was a small 
girl, I was brought up to act as if everyone I hadn’t met was 
a chair or a table, weren’t you.?* ” 

“ No,” confessed Dolores, embarrassed. “ I was never told 
anything like that. I’ve always liked to look at people, and 
make up histories about them.” 

“ Did you make up a history about me? ” Lady Desmond 
still smiled ; but her eyes looked more green than gray. 

“ No-o. But I was interested, of course.” 

“ How nice ! One likes to feel one has the power to interest 
strangers.” 

“ Even though you mustn’t let them think you see them? ” 
And now it was Dolores who smiled, though she felt a child in 
the hands of the woman. 

“ Yes, because one does see them — if they’re worth seeing. 

160 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


I saw you — though I can’t remember where it was. But that’s 
a mere detail. I’ve remembered you, since — now tell me, since 
when.? ” 

“ I think — it was one day — at Claridge’s Hotel in Lon- 
don.” 

“ Oh ! It must have been the day my brother and his wife 
and I ran up to town for a day from Cowes — to see a doctor. 
Yes. It comes back to me now. You were — ^you were in the 
hall when — ” she stopped, and looked straight at Dolores. 
‘‘ When we were having tea,” she finished. 

“ Yes,” assented the girl, relieved. But the strain was not 
over yet. 

“ My brother had been rather seedy,” Lady Desmond went 
on. “ Mona — his wife — was worried about him and we had no 
rest till he consented to see a doctor. She worships him, you 
see. People have a way of worshiping my brother. Did you 
notice him.? ” 

“ Yes. I thought he was your brother.” 

“You actually thought about us? How sweet of you. 
We’re rather alike, people say, my brother and I.” 

“ Very much. Only he’s so much older.” 

“ He has had trouble. I suppose you know — that he would 
have had this place when the — late owner died, if the entail 
hadn’t been broken.?” 

Dolores started a little. “ No, I didn’t know.” 

Lady Desmond looked at her intently. “ I thought you 
surely would. Well, it ought to have been his. But he got the 
other family estate. It’s not half as beautiful as this, though 
in some ways it’s more valuable. Still, now I’ve seen you here, 
I don’t grudge you Queen’s Quadrangles. And your name is 
Eliot, too. Are we related, I wonder.? ” 

161 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

The girl’s face flushed. “ I don’t know. Were you — was 
your name Eliot? ” 

‘‘ My name was Vane. That is my brother’s name. We are 
cousins, distant ones, of — the people here.” 

“ Of Lady Rosamund? ” 

“ Of her dead husband. But he died before I can remember 
much. I wouldn’t have come to this house to-day if it hadn’t 
been for you. And you may take that as a compliment. Miss 
Eliot. I’m perfectly certain that everybody who has happened 
to find out that I’m calling here is at this minute saying to 
some one else that Nina Desmond has the most horribly bad 
taste. But fortunately I don’t care much what people say — 
especially people here ; except you. I’m not sure that I shan’t 
rather care about you.” 

Dolores blushed brightly, though whether with more of 
pleasure or embarrassment she could not have said. 

“ I don’t understand why anybody should think it bad taste 
in you to come,” she hurried to say. “ I think it’s very nice.” 

“ That is pretty of you. But you don’t seem to know as 
much as I — fancied you might, about — the circumstances. 
However, if there are any lions in my path, I always make a 
point of bearding them in their dens. St. John de Grey 
begged hard that I would come, and — ^wake up the county a 
little. (I can do that, you know, because I’m' rather less dull 
and conventional than most of the people about here. ) But if 
he hadn’t begged as hard as he did, I should still very likely 
have come. I never was at Queen’s Quadrangles before, 
though my brother used to visit here. Really, I’m tremen- 
dously interested. I should like it immensely if you’d be my 
guide and show me the house. It must be rather wonderful, 
judging by this.” 


162 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


“ I should love showing it,” exclaimed Dolores, quite off 
her guard now. 

“ Thank you. I’ll explain to Mrs. Eliot. I suppose there’s 
no danger of our meeting Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot if we 
start on a tour of inspection? I don’t think even I should 
quite dare face that. Tillingboume says she’s supposed to be 
acting as your housekeeper. Is it true? ” 

“ Yes. She wanted it to be so,” said the girl. 

“ How extremely quaint ! And did you take Queen’s Quad- 
rangles because you, too, were Eliots ? ” 

“ No, we hadn’t heard about — that there were Vane-Eliots 
here then. We — we went to an agent.” Dolores hurried over 
this truthful but abbreviated explanation, as she thought, for 
^ both their sakes, it might not be agreeable to have Lady Des- 
mond find out about the cut copy of Country Life. As it 
was, she was not at all confident that the elder woman did not 
guess at something kept back, or that she was not trying to 
discover what at present she could only suspect. 

Now, there was no longer a mystery in that little scene with 
the illustrated paper, in the hall of Claridge’s Hotel. The 
brother and sister had been interested in the advertisement 
because they felt that Queen’s Quadrangles ought to have 
come to their branch of the family, and they had doubtless 
felt vexed at seeing the place to let. Yes, that was it; and no 
other reason was needed, Dolores told herself. Yet she felt 
dimly that there had been something else, something which 
would account for an emotion stronger than mere interest, 
stronger than pique or disappointment. 

When Lord Tillingboume heard that Miss Eliot was to 
play cicerone to Lady Desmond, he asked if he might not be 
personally conducted, too; and it ended in the whole party 

163 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


making a tour of the house. Lady Desmond had seemed not 
at all averse to Tillingbourne’s proposal, but a slight change 
of countenance showed that she was not quite pleased to have 
Captain de Grey join the expedition. Evidently she had 
hoped that he and Mrs. Eliot would wait together in the 
fountain court until the three explorers should see fit to 
return. And this appeared a httle odd to Dolores, be- 
cause St. John de Grey and Lady Desmond were supposed 
to be very good friends. The lady admitted frankly that 
she had proposed this sudden visit to the duke with the 
idea of pleasing St. John; and it was St. John, not Tilling- 
bourne, whose doings she seemed to watch, whose voice she 
seemed to hear, even when he was not speaking to her. 
Nevertheless, it was Tillingbourne whom she contrived to 
keep near her and Dolores, as they went from room to room 
of the house, St. John walking with Mrs. Eliot, talking to 
Mrs. Eliot. 

Lady Desmond (whom Tillingbourne and De Grey both ad- 
dressed as “Nina”) expressed great admiration of Queen’s 
Quadrangles, of which she visited nearly every room, except 
Lady Rosamund’s quarters, and the servants’. “ If I say I 
don’t grudge you the place, it’s saying a great deal,” she re- 
marked at last to Frances and Dolores, with a faint flash of 
the famous smile. “ If it were my brother Paul’s, you know, 
as it ought to have been, it would be almost the same as mine, 
because I should have insisted on visiting him often. Really, 
it’s the most wonderful old house I ever saw. Still, I’m being 
very good and generous. I feel that you both fit in quite 
charmingly, and you’re so appreciative of all the beauties 
that you deserve to have the place.” 

Frances expressed her gratitude for this tribute, and added 

164 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

that she would be delighted if Lady Desmond would come and 
stay at Queen’s Quadrangles, in spite of the fact that justice 
had not been done to her brother. 

“ If Lady Rosamund were at the North Pole or somewhere 
even less remote, I’d take you at your word,” she answered, 
with the almost defiant frankness of speech which was one of 
her characteristics (though only when convenient or amusing) 
if not an affectation. ‘‘ I’m popularly supposed to be a hor- 
ribly daring person. I generally do what I want to do, no 
matter what anybody may think — for what do people matter, 
unless you choose to let them? But — even I — ^with Lady 
Rosamund Vane-Eliot lurking somewhere in an awful back- 
ground — no, I shouldn’t be equal to it. It would give me — 
what’s that other thing, besides appendicitis, you Americans 
are always having.? — oh, nervous prostration, to live under 
the same roof with her. You know, she hates our branch of 
the family. You had better not tell her I’ve been in the house, 
unless you want a scene.” 

“ We never do tell her anything,” said Frances. “ She 
won’t let us. She persists in acting exactly as if she were an 
ordinary housekeeper, and never encourages any conversation 
when I see her in the mornings for a few minutes, except about 
household arrangements. It seemed awfully queer at first, but 
I’m beginning to get used to it now.” 

“ What a strange woman ! ” exclaimed Nina Desmond. 
“ This house is a kind of obsession with her. She was deter- 
mined to get it for her own, and now, when she can’t afford 
to keep it up, she clings to it still, no matter under what 
humiliating conditions.” 

“ She doesn’t appear to feel that they’re humiliating,” 
said Frances. “ She — I can’t describe what she’s like, unless 

165 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


it’s a kind of captive queen, who is too proud even to show 
her pride, if you can understand what I mean.” 

“ Things I’ve heard of her help me to understand, though 
we never met,” answered Lady Desmond. “ But it does seem 
rather hard on you that she should stick like a limpet, and 
spoil all the pleasure you might have had in being mistress 
here. Shocking bad taste, I call it. Can’t you make her go? ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” exclaimed Frances, almost horrified at such a 
crudely bold suggestion. “ She lets Queen’s Quadrangles only 
on condition that she stays as housekeeper.” 

‘‘ Too extraordinary of her, isn’t it ? Seems like madness. 
I can say this, you see, because one has a right to abuse one’s 
relatives, hasn’t one.? — and as Lady Rosamund married her 
distant cousin. Sir Vane-Eliot, there’s a little of the same 
blood in our veins — ^very little, though, I trust! Of course, 
you must know that silly people have stopped away from 
Queen’s Quadrangles since you came, because she’s in the 
house ? If she’d had the decency to go it would have been very 
different for you.” 

“ So Captain de Grey has hinted to me,” Frances con- 
fessed. “ It was very kind of him to give me some idea of the 
real reason, because I supposed that people must have a 
prejudice against us personally. As it is, we must just put 
up with it, and enjoy the dear, beautiful place as well as we 
can, without very much society.” 

“ Oh, you’ll have that, too, now,” laughed Lady Desmond, 
looking rather wicked and very daring. “ That’s what I’m 
here for. Just at the moment, I happen to be rather the fash- 
ion. Do you think it’s conceited of me to say that? It isn’t, 
really. I don’t care enough. Perhaps that’s why people do 
things I choose to have them do. It’s a great mistake to care 

166 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


much for anyone. I’ve found it so; and I avoid the mistake 
now — as a general thing.” 

As she said this her nonchalant smile faded for an instant, 
and the slanting, green-gray eyes looked to Dolores’s fasci- 
nated gaze almost malevolent. But in a second she had herself 
well in hand again, and one might almost have thought the 
queer green flash a trick of the imagination. 

“ I know quite well what everybody will say,” she went on. 
“‘If Nina Desmond can make up her mind to enter that house, 
in spite of the connection, and the way her poor brother suf- 
fered, why, we can let bygones be bygones.’ And they will. 
They’ll come in their — dozens. But it won’t really be to fol- 
low my good example. It will be to follow me. You’ve prom- 
ised to come and bring Miss Eliot to the impromptu bridge 
dinner Tillingbourne and I are arranging for to-night (one 
must rush things if one has but four days to stop, and a lot 
to do with them), and on Monday there’ll be that little dance 
I spoke of getting up — heaps of men will run over from 
Aldershot when I wire; and afterwards you’ll find that you 
have the whole county to pick and choose from.” 

“ I really do think you are kind ! ” exclaimed Frances. “ I 
never knew anybody to be so kind. Why they say English 
people are stiff about getting acquainted, and I thought it 
was so; but I see now I misjudged the best ones.” 

In her innocent gratitude for this magnificent rescue, 
Frances did not see in the gray eyes a cold light of half- 
amused contempt, which their lovely owner hardly took the 
pains to hide. But Dolores saw, and wondered whether she 
could possibly be right in interpreting it as she did. Unless 
Lady Desmond had taken a fancy to her and her mother, why 
should she put herself to so much trouble on their account.^ 

167 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

Of course, it was to please Captain de Grey, who really 
was kind ; but would a fashionable woman, thoroughly 
aware of her own importance, actually bore herself for 
the sake of gratifying a friend — a man younger than 
herself? 

Poor Dolores! she was very innocent of the world’s ways. 
And even if she had seen Nina Desmond’s face afterwards, 
when St. John de Grey was thanking her enthusiastically for 
what she had done, its expression might not have solved the 
mystery. Perhaps it would even have deepened it; for to 
Dolores’s unawakened mind, no matter how handsome and 
attractive a woman might be, if she were a widow, over 
thirty, it was scarcely credible that she should feel other 
than a motherly or sisterly interest in a man of twenty- 
eight. 

Besides, Lady Desmond had said that she did not let her- 
self care much for anything or anybody nowadays; so the 
girl of nineteen supposed that this fascinating woman’s 
romance was all in the past — buried in her dead husband’s 
grave, perhaps. 

Dolores had never read Balzac, and did not know that only 
the last love of a woman burns fiercely enough to satisfy the 
first love of a man. 

As for Frances, she had not seen the look which answered 
her little burst of gratitude, and she took the things that she 
liked comfortably for granted after the first joyful surprise. 
One of the things she liked best, though she did not know it 
herself, was the Duke of Bridgewater’s visiting card, which his 
son had brought. She had never seen the visiting card of a 
duke before, and she was childlike enough at forty to like 
having it on her table. 


168 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 


If he had not had neuralgia, on account of that horrid 
notice of his book, he would have called. Frances was not 
snobbish, but she did not see anything at all funny in that 
attack of neuralgia, and she was sure that she would like the 
duke’s latest novel, which she intended to buy immediately. 


169 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


A GHOST PICTURE 

T here was music at the duke’s on Sunday evening. 
Lord Tillingbourne had wired to London and brought 
down a famous singer, also a violinist. This was 
another excuse to lure the Eliots to Tillingbourne Court ; and 
then came the informal dance on Monday, which developed 
into a cotillon, with charming favors, bridge being played 
by older people. 

Meanwhile the duke had more or less recovered from the 
force of the blow he had received ; and on learning from Lady 
Desmond that little Mrs. Eliot had just read and was enor- 
mously impressed with his novel on slum life, he found himself 
well enough to call at Queen’s Quadrangles, with Tilling- 
boume, on Monday afternoon. 

That made things pleasanter all round, as Frances said, 
and she was won by the duke’s thinness and air of extreme 
delicacy. They talked about books, and about digestion. 
Frances promised to give the duke a wonderful cure for neu- 
ralgia, and the duke promised to give her a copy of his novel 
before last with his name written in it. 

While he and Tillingbourne were in the house. Lord and 
Lady Chilford came to call, and later Mrs. Calendar; so St. 
J ohn’s plan was turning out a great success ; and he was not 
half as well satisfied with his triumph as he had expected to be. 
Nina Desmond had done all he had asked of her, and a 
170 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


great deal more. He had never fully realized what a sweet, 
kind-hearted woman she was ; indeed, he had never thought of 
those particular virtues in connection with the brilliant lady 
who honored him with signs of her friendship until now, when 
she made him see her in a new light at Tillingbourne Court. 
Nevertheless, in spite of her goodness to him in connection 
with the Eliots, it seemed to be invariably Tillingbourne who 
scored; and this was a disagreeable surprise to St. John, 
because, when begging Nina Desmond to propose a visit to the 
duke, he had not taken Tillingbourne into consideration. 

To be sure, he had heard from Mrs. Calendar, at the Miss 
Greenleaf’s, that the important young man intended running 
down on a short leave; but Tilhngbourne had never found 
much time to waste on girls in his own class. Occasionally he 
condescended to flirt with some pretty married woman, if she 
were not too exacting; but if he had ever shown any signs 
of being seriously smitten it was an actress who won the 
triumph. 

It had not occurred to St. John that Tillingbourne might 
be attracted by Dolores Eliot; but the unexpected had hap- 
pened, and his carefully laid plan seemed to be working out 
far more to the profit of another than to his own advantage. 

Even at the dance, St. John had comparatively little chance 
with Dolores, and was obliged to seek consolation in Nina Des- 
mond’s kindness. When he did get the girl to himself, he 
found her slightly absent-minded, and wondered jealously if 
she were thinking of Tillingbourne. The duke’s only son was 
undoubtedly a better match than he; and Nina said that — 
though Dolores Eliot might be quite an exception — all other 
American girls she had ever met thought everything of a 
title. In fact, according to Nina, it was considered rather a 

171 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


faux-pas in a girl from the other side, to marry an English- 
man who was not at least a marquis. 

Perhaps if St. John had known the real cause of Dolores’s 
preoccupation when in his society he would hardly have been 
better pleased, for it is no great compliment to a man that a 
girl’s thoughts should stray from him to a ghost, an anoma- 
lous being with no recognized existence. Yet so it was. The 
delights of her first grown-up dance were wasted upon Do- 
lores because she was thinking of a ghost. 

Four nights had passed since she had been able to visit the 
lost court and the tragic wraith whose haunt it was; and 
because she thought always of that wraith, the pleasant things 
she ought to have enjoyed merely bored her. 

She had to go to the dinner, and the music, and the dance, 
and a few weeks ago they would all have been exciting events. 
She had to help her mother give a return at Queen’s Quad- 
rangles (that dinner of which Lady Rosamund heard in ad- 
vance with a face absolutely expressionless) ; she had to be 
nice to the callers who came, and ought to have come long 
before; indeed, there seemed something for her to do with 
every hour until a late bedtime. And instead of being en- 
chanted with the change, as Frances was, the girl was restless 
and distrait. 

The night after the dinner at Queen’s Quadrangles, her 
mother came to her room and “ talked things over,” far from 
guessing that Dolores did not share her interest in their little 
social successes. When Frances realized at last that it was 
very late and that they ought both to have been asleep ages 
ago, midnight was too long past for a visit to the lost court 
to be possible. 

The next day, however. Lady Desmond and the half dozen 

172 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


friends she had brought with her went away, bound for Scot- 
land, where they would stay until October 1st. Then Lady 
Desmond was to be at her flat in town for a few days before 
beginning a round of country-house visits, one of which was 
to be at the Duke of Bridgewater’s again. Frances and 
Dolores were to lunch with her on one of those days in Lon- 
don ; and then, when she came down into Surrey a little later, 
she promised to bring more pleasant people to Queen’s Quad- 
rangles. 

Already Frances began to occupy herself with the thought 
of a ball that she would give when Lady Desmond was again 
in the neighborhood; something quite out of the common it 
must be, to make people want to come : fancy dress, perhaps, 
and a wonderful cotillon. Lord Tillingbourne — who was stay- 
ing on with his father for a day or two — and Captain de Grey 
would advise her what to do. 

They both came to play tennis in the afternoon, but fortu- 
nately for Dolores’s wishes the evening was free, and Frances 
grew sleepy early. They had talked over so many things by 
this time that there was really little left to say, and Frances 
yielded to yawns. By half past ten the house was quiet, and 
before eleven Dolores was stealing across the lawn to the mar- 
ble terrace. 

After this long absence, seemingly neglect, she hardly dared 
to hope that the ghost would be waiting for her; and seeing 
no streak of light to remind her that the middle block of mar- 
ble was a door, her first thought was that he had not cared to 
come to watch. 

Down sank her heart, for if he were not here, there was no 
way for her to reach him. She dared not tap on the panel at 
the end of the long gallery, close as it was to Lady Rosa- 

173 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

mund’s door; and even if she did dare it would probably be 
useless, as a long passage lay between that hidden door and 
the exit from the room where the ghost had entertained her 
last. Of course it was possible that if he were in his room of 
books, he might hear her if she rapped on the wall in the book 
room behind the library ; but should he hear, he could not be 
sure who knocked, and it would not be safe to call him. 

For a moment she stood still on the platform, near the 
mooring place of the boats ; then she would have turned away 
with a sigh if something had not moved in the gondola. 

Dark as it was — for the moon rose late now — she saw a 
man’s figure sit up and rise to its feet. 

“ Is it — you ? ” the girl asked, almost in a whisper. 

“ Yes, it’s I,” answered the voice which in her fancy she had 
never quite ceased to hear, like an undertone beneath the bab- 
ble of other voices. “ I was lying in the gondola — waiting. 
But I didn’t hear you come.” 

“ Oh, I’m so glad you’re here ! ” Dolores exclaimed. “ I 
was afraid you’d be disgusted with me and wouldn’t care 
whether you ever saw me again or not.” 

He laughed. “ Did you really think that.? Well, I did care 
— so much that I’ve lain perdu here in the bottom of this gon- 
dola, hoping against hope, every night from ten o’clock till 
twelve.” 

He was out of the gondola now, standing beside her on the 
marble platform, the water washing close to their feet. His 
face was shadowed and indistinct in the darkness, but she saw 
how tall he was. She felt almost like a little girl beside him. 
Neither Lord Tillingbourne nor Captain de Grey was as tall 
as he, and both their figures seemed heavy as she contrasted 
them in her mind with his. 


174 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


“ I can’t bear to think of your waiting here in the night, 
and my not coming,” she said. “ I did want to come — more 
than anything else, but I couldn’t get away. I hoped you’d 
understand that — yet I was afraid you mightn’t.” 

“ I did understand,” the ghost answered. “ Not that you 
wanted to come — why should you.?^ But that, because you’d 
promised, and because you had such kind compassion on me, 
you would have come if you could.” 

“ But, of course, I did want to,” Dolores insisted. “ I’ve 
thought — oh, such lots about you. I’ve kept asking myself if 
there was nothing I could do to help. I know you said there 
wasn’t. But if we could talk it aU over. Will you have me in 
to sit with you now for a few minutes, in — your house ” 

“ My house ! ” he laughed again as he repeated her words. 
‘‘ You make me feel quite a person of importance when you 
treat me as a host instead of the hunted, homeless shadow 
I’ve been for years. Yes, come if you will. I have no words 
which can tell you rightly how welcome you are in shadow- 
land.” 

“ Are you really glad to have me ? ” she asked, when he had 
led her into the little room of the Spanish pictures and hang- 
ings of brocade. 

She was sitting in a big oak chair, resting her head con- 
tentedly against the high, carved back, and he looked at her 
for a moment without answering. His eyes were so somber 
that she was half frightened, wondering if, after all, he were 
going to tell her that on second thoughts it seemed better for 
her not to come. 

“ ‘ Glad ’ is such a strange word to me,” he said at last. 
“ It’s so long since it’s been in my vocabulary ; but I find I 
haven’t forgotten what it means. I think it means even more 

175 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


than it used to, when I heard or spoke the word every day 
without attaching any particular importance to it. Glad! 
What a lot it does mean. Yes, I am glad to have you. But — 
IVe been asking myself a few questions in these five days since 
I saw you last. Just how black is the blackness going to be 
when it folds me in again ? ” 

“ I don’t understand,” said Dolores. 

“ By and by — in a little while — ^you’ll go away.” 

“From Queen’s Quadrangles.? Oh, no. We shall be here 
for years. At first mother thought she wouldn’t like it in the 
winter. But now that lots of people are coming to see us, and 
asking us to go and see them, she feels differently. Only to- 
day she was asking me if I could be happy here all the year 
round. And I said yes; I couldn’t be happy anywhere else, 
now I’ve grown to love the place so much.” 

“ That isn’t all I meant. You make plans — ^but fate will 

change them. You’ll marry some man ” 

“ I — marry ! Oh, no, I couldn’t — I couldn’t dream of it ! ” 
Dolores was almost shocked. And then she was faintly sur- 
prised at herself and the curious repugnance roused in her 
by the sudden suggestion. She had not thought as much as 
many girls do about marriage, perhaps, because it was not 
for her an end and aim. She had her mother, and plenty of 
money; she would always have plenty of money, and could 
command the pleasant things of life ; still, she had always sup- 
posed that some day she would fall in love and marry. She 
had even made up her mind what kind of man he must be who 
would win her to care for him. He must be tall and strong, 
but lean rather than stout — oh, above all things he must not 
be stout! Not too young; she was inclined to scorn boys, ex- 
cept for tennis or a dance ; not too old ; with eyes that could 

176 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


make you feel, and a beautiful voice. But now — she was sure, 
perfectly sure, that she could never marry anyone. She could 
not bear even to think of having a husband. 

“ I wonder how soon some man will make you change your 
mind and take you away from — from Queen’s Quadran- 
gles ? ” said the ghost. But Dolores forgot to answer. Sud- 
denly she had thought of something else far more important 
than distant marryings and givings in marriage. 

“ Oh, have you made me a sketch of yourself in the court ? ” 
she exclaimed abruptly. 

He smiled. Who — even a ghost — could have helped smiling 
at such a question, as an answer to his.^^ 

“ I’ll show you what I’ve done,” he said, getting up and 
going to the old carved table in the comer. Coming back, he 
brought the little water-color drawing of the lost court which 
he had made for her the other day. It was unaltered, except 
that a ghostly, transparent form sat on the marble seat, a 
form so diaphanous that the carvings on the marble showed 
through. Only the face was more than a mere dim suggestion. 
It was clear of outline, and the eyes looked straight into Do- 
lores’s eyes, as she eagerly bent over the sketch. The likeness 
was so good that the artist must have sat before a mirror 
while he painted, she thought. She was delighted with that 
likeness, but the cruel emphasis which insisted on a ghostly, 
immaterial existence stabbed her sharply. 

“ Oh, how could you make it like that.? ” she reproached 
him. 

“ I made myself as I am — a shadow,” he said. “ But per- 
haps it is rather ghastly. I’m sorry I had the bad taste to 
spoil the sketch ” ; and in another second he would have torn 
the paper across, had the girl not stopped him. With a little 

177 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


cry she caught his hand ; and then at the warm touch of it, 
she looked up at him, as if surprised. 

Always, he had laid such stress upon the fact that he was 
a ghost, a cold wraith shivering outside of life, that some- 
how she had not thought of his hand being warm and strong, 
with the virile hardness that means muscle fed with hot, red 
blood. 

Perhaps he read what was in her mind, for he flushed to his 
forehead, and without a word let her take the sketch from 
him. 

“ Never mind,” she said. “ I’ll keep it as it is. And the face 
is splendid. I do thank you — very much. You haven’t asked 
me to be careful that no one sees the sketch, and I thank you 
for that, too, because it shows you trust me. You may, you 
know.” 

“ I do know. But don’t thank me — for anything. It isn’t 
right. You have nothing to thank me for — ^just the contrary. 
I oughtn’t to let you come here.” 

“ Why ” she asked, her eyes clouding. 

“ Because — ” he looked at the expectant, childlike face, so 
sensitive, and so absolutely innocent that he could not finish 
what he had begun to say. “ I ought not ; that’s all,” he said. 

“ You didn’t invite me to come at first,” Dolores reminded 
him. “ You found me here. And — I think I offered to come 
again, if you wanted me. If you don’t ” 

“ Oh, you know I do ! ” his voice had something like anger 
in it, but Dolores was not frightened. 

“ Then,” she said, “ it’s settled, and we needn’t bother to 
talk about it any more, because I’m coming — often. I should 
be unhappy if you wouldn’t let me come.” 

It did not strike her that she was not talking to the lonely 

178 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 


master of the lost court as a girl is supposed to talk to a man. 
She could not have told St. John de Grey or Lord Tilling- 
bourne that it would make her unhappy not to see them, even 
if it were the truth. Yet to this one she spoke frankly, as she 
felt. But then, he was a ghost. He said that he was a ghost. 




179 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


THE QUESTION OF A DOG 

W HEN Dolores came to look by daylight at the sketch 
of the ghost in the lost court, it seemed to her that 
the likeness was even more perfect than she had 
thought. But the shadowy outlines of the body in the old- 
fashioned clothes (she had noticed other men’s things, and 
knew DOW that they were old fashioned) and the intentionally 
given effect of unreality disturbed her. She was half minded 
to cut out the face and put it in a frame, but the whole sketch 
was so perfect as a work of art that she would have been loath 
to destroy it, even if she had not valued it because of the 
giver. 

“ I will make a copy,” she said to herself. “ Just the face, 
and I’ll put it in a locket which nobody shall ever see.” 

But she had given away her paint box, and had to wait 
until another, for which she promptly sent to London, should 
arrive. At the same time she ordered a supply of canvas, an 
easel, oil paints, and brushes, and all the necessary para- 
phernalia for an artist. Then she could hardly wait until 
the things should be in her hands; but at last they came, 
and the girl at once set to work at copying the face of the 
ghost on a small square of ivory which she had bought. 

She found it a more difficult task than she had expected, 
for though she had a talent at catching likenesses, this one 
was elusive ; besides, she cared too much. 

180 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


Until she had seen this presentment of it on paper, she 
had not quite realized how extraordinarily attractive the face 
of the ghost was. The artist had not flattered himself in the 
sketch ; rather had he done himself less than justice, but in try- 
ing to copy the features, Dolores saw how good to look upon 
they were. And the eyes, gazing straight into hers, made lit- 
tle pulses throb in her fingers as she held her paint brush. 

She made several unsuccessful attempts, and at last was re- 
duced to the inartistic expedient of laying the sketch on the 
window pane, with a sheet of water-color paper on it. Hav- 
ing then lightly drawn the outlines with a pencil, she was 
afterwards able to evolve a result which satisfied her more or 
less. 

Having succeeded at last, more or less to her satisfaction, 
she motored that same afternoon into Daleford, attended by 
Parker, the maid brought down from London, and found at 
a jewelry shop a simple, open-faced locket, with a long, thin 
gold chain. 

She had not been entirely pleased with l)er attempt at min- 
iature painting, but when she saw the handsome face looking 
out at her from under glass the work seemed less amateurish, 
and Dolores was delighted. Over her head went the thin chain 
to be hidden under her bodice ; and when she dressed for din- 
ner that evening she slipped it down so that it lay concealed 
in the lace round her shoulders. As for the locket, that was 
well out of sight; but she was conscious of its presence, and 
somehow the happier for it. 

If she had had to account for her happiness, she would 
have honestly hesitated, unable to define the feeling; then 
she would have said — and meant it — that she felt the ghost 
needed a friend who thought of him always, to whom he 

181 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

was important ; and she was happy because she was that 
friend. 

Almost every night she saw him, sometimes only for five 
or ten minutes, standing on the platform at the foot of the 
terrace or sitting in the gondola ; sometimes for half an hour 
in his own mysterious domain. She told him of things that 
happened in the outside world, but she did not talk of Lady 
Desmond’s visit. She had w^aited for him to mention that name 
again, if he chose, knowing, as he did, that the lady who bore 
it was expected at Tillingbourne Court ; but he did not choose, 
and so Dolores kept silence concerning the woman whose name- 
sake he had known before he was a ghost. 

He questioned her about others, however, and seemed driven 
by an almost morbid curiosity to learn every detail he could 
extort concerning the Eliots’ growing friendship with St. 
John de Grey and Lord Tillingbourne. 

Dolores saw that her stories of tennis and motor picnics 
cast him into the depths of gloom, and accounted for his 
change of mood by reminding herself that he was in prison. 
It must be terrible to hear of the outdoor amusements of men 
in the world which were not for him ; yet he would have her 
recount the doings of every day. 

“ Why, why do you make me talk to you of these things ? ” 
she asked once. 

“ Because it’s good discipline for me,” he answered. 

“ Can’t you get away from this prison life.? ” she went on, 
desperate in her sympathy for him. “ I don’t know why you 
came here or why you stay ; I don’t ask to know, because you 
don’t want me to, even though we’re friends now. But there 
must be some way of escape. I could help you, maybe. If you 

wanted to disguise yourself, I could ” 

182 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


‘‘ I do not want that,” he broke in. “ I’ve thought of it, 
of course, but as I told you at first, it’s not possible. There 
are reasons.” 

“ Mightn’t you be happy in some far-off country, if once 
you could get there ? ” she persisted. 

“ No. I’m out of the world, now and forever,” he answered. 
‘‘ When I said to you that I had died long ago, I wasn’t speak- 
ing figuratively. I am dead, and there’s no resurrection for 
me. Don’t let us talk of what can’t be, or I shall forget the 
blessings I have. You are one; and, there’s one other.” 

As he said that he glanced up at the portrait on the wall — 
the portrait of the beautiful young girl who smiled down at 
him from the canvas ; and Dolores was stabbed by a strange 
little pang, such as she had never felt before. He put her first 
as a blessing, at least in words ; but there was a passion of 
love in the dark, tragic eyes as they dwelt on the portrait. 

That very night she had half meant to tell him about the 
copy she had made from his sketch, and how — ^because they 
were such friends — she wore his face in a locket. She had 
thought it might please him who had so few pleasures to 
know that, even when his friend was with others, she had 
always a talisman very near her to remind her of him. But 
when she saw his face as he looked at the lovely girl in the 
portrait she shrank from telling her little secret. Perhaps 
that picture was his talisman. Maybe the original was living 
somewhere in the world now, thinking of him, and he of her. 
And if that were true, no new friend could be to him of 
supreme importance. 

He never asked her questions about those who lived in the 
house; about Lady Rosamund, or the old servants, or any- 
thing that made up the daily routine of the household; but 

183 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


he encouraged Dolores to talk of her acquaintances outside; 
and he seemed to enjoy hearing about Miss Poppy and Miss 
Peachy Greenleaf, the two old ladies of Turk’s Cottage. 

They had not changed their minds as others had since the 
advent of Lady Desmond. The fact that the duke had decided 
to forget Queen’s Quadrangles’s past, and “ take up ” its 
new tenants, had not sent them flying to call, as it had others. 
They did not come; but Dolores went to them, and Frances 
went, too, after hearing much of them from her daughter. 
Dolores had grown fond of the old ladies, and when she found 
that anecdotes of the Misses Greenleaf’s quaint little ways 
amused the ghost, she made a point of collecting a fund of 
them for his benefit. 

She had begun to study Spanish, which she had always 
meant to learn, and when she had more than half an hour to 
give him, he sometimes helped her with it, for he knew the lan- 
guage well. By day, though he said nothing to her of those 
lonely hours, he must have painted a good deal with the new 
oil paints Dolores had bought him, for at night he showed her 
a picture as it grew. He said that it was bad because he had 
to work without models, but it seemed wonderful to the girl ; 
and she blessed it for more than its artistic worth, because 
something (she supposed it was this painting taken up again) 
was giving the ghost an interest in life — or that pale substi- 
tute for life which was his all. His eyes were not always tragic 
now, and his voice had lost that curious unreality, that dead- 
ness of tone which had pained her at first. 

So a fortnight passed; and a new code was established be- 
tween the two. When she had hoped to see him, and found out 
during the day that she could not, at half past seven, just 
before dressing for dinner, she went into the bookroom behind 

184 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


the library as if to find a book. Then, removing three or four 
volumes from a shelf, she would tap three times, as hard as she 
dared. The ghost, on the other side in his own hidden room 
of books, removed from her in that secret place only by the 
thickness of two oak partitions, heard and answered. 

He was always there at that hour, in order to learn his fate ; 
but that was not all. Occasionally, for some reason which he 
never explained, he was unable to receive a visitor in the lost 
court. When he knew that the mysterious thing which must 
keep him from his friend was about to happen, he tapped on 
his side of the wall five times ; so that even if she had no bad 
news to communicate, Dolores went into the bookroom each 
evening at the same hour. 

Only twice or thrice in the fortnight did she receive the 
adverse signal, but, having been warned that it might come 
and what it would mean, she was extraordinarily depressed by 
it. In his hermit existence, where one day was as another, 
blank and empty save for his owm thoughts, what could come 
to disturb the tenor of the prisoner’s ways ? 

It was impossible for her to put such a question to him, and 
she tried to banish it from her own mind, but it would come, 
and come again, forcing her to realize how little she knew of 
the man who called himself a ghost. Not only had he some 
great secret to hide, but he was himself a part of that secret ; 
his existence w^as a secret, the place where he lived was a 
secret. And nothing of it all did she know save that he was 
there in the hidden court, a fact which she had found out by 
accident ; and since discovering it she had learned no more. 

She did not even know if he were quite alone in his prison. 
Being in reality a man, and not a ghost, he must have food 
and drink, and since he could not come out to get them for 

185 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


himself, obviously he must be served by some one. It occurred 
to the girl, when she thought of these things, that possibly 
he had a servant who went out at night to fetch supplies. 
There were several rooms above those she had seen in the lost 
court, and a servant might live there without his existence 
being known to her. But it was only when the mysterious 
necessity for his complete seclusion arose that Dolores realized 
to the full how strange was that hidden existence, now become 
so important to her. At other times she half forgot the mys- 
tery of it, as her new friendship became more and more an 
essential part of her hfe. Nevertheless, going to the lost court 
was to her always hke going into a dream; the return, like 
waking up to realities comparatively commonplace. 

Then, at the end of the fortnight, came the 1st of October, 
and news of Lady Desmond’s return from Scotland. She wrote 
to say that she was about to arrive at her flat in town, and 
would be delighted if, instead of coming only to lunch, as they 
had planned, Mrs. Eliot would bring her daughter to dine 
and stop the night. They would have dinner early and “ do a 
theater,” for several quite amusing new plays w^ere now on. 
Lord Tillingbourne — who had left his father’s house in Sur- 
rey and gone back to duty — would be asked, and would cer- 
tainly accept, even if he had to break another engagement 
or two. 

Frances was charmed with the invitation, principally for 
Dolores’s sake, though she thought that she, too, would enjoy 
a gay little dinner and a play in the society of pleasant people. 
She proposed that, if they amused themselves in town, they 
might stay on for a night or two more taking rooms at Clar- 
idge’s, and perhaps arranging a luncheon or a dinner of 
their own. Besides, they must be thinking of the fancy-dress 

186 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

dance, which she had now quite decided to give when Lady 
Desmond should be again in Surrey. She must consult the 
best caterers and florists, and there were costumes to be chosen 
for herself and her daughter. It was useless for Dolores to 
say it would be better to put off having such an entertainment 
until another year. They knew quantities of people now — 
everybody there was to know ; and Lady Desmond would see 
that there were plenty of dancing men. 

The little woman would have been surprised indeed could 
she have known how indifferent Dolores was to the prospect 
of giving a dance, how dismayed the girl felt at being torn 
away from Queen’s Quadrangles for two or three days. 

“ I wonder if he’ll care — if he will miss me.^ ” Dolores 
asked herself ; but the question was answered that night. She 
saw him and told him ; and it was plain that he did care. His 
face was utterly blank for a moment, and the light — that 
new-kindled light of interest in things — ^went out of his eyes. 

“ Oh — you’re going away — for days,” he said. “ Well — 
I ought to be glad. It’s dull for you at Queen’s Quadrangles. 
But I’m not glad. I’ve grown so selfish that I want you always 
here. I need you — my little friend.” 

“ I’d stay if I could,” she protested. “ I only ” 

“ No. You mustn’t say that. I mustn’t let you say it — or 
feel it,” he broke in. “ I’m nothing — I can be nothing — in 
your life. And that’s best. Enjoy things all you can, and for 
Heaven’s sake don’t let me or thoughts of me come between 
you and pleasure. I’d be a brute indeed if I wanted that ; and 
it’s even worse to be a brute than a ghost.” 

Then he had gone on to say that she must be happy in 
London, and if she thought of him at all, think only how glad 
he should be to see her when she came back. But her heart 

187 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


was troubled. She had wanted him to be sorry that she was 
going ; yet now, when she saw how sorry he really was, she felt 
almost sick with remorse. 

She had brought brightness into his prison. She had long 
been sure of that, but she knew now something more of what 
it had been to him, and how he would feel when the brightness 
was gone. If only she could think of anything to make the 
time pass for him while she was away ! 

Books she had brought him; but he had many books al- 
ready. He seemed to have read all the best books in the world. 
Flowers would soon fade. What was there, then, that she 
could give ? 

Suddenly she thought of a dog. Why should she not buy 
him a dog and smuggle it in to him the night before she 
went away ? She wondered that the idea had never come to her 
before, and she welcomed it excitedly, as an inspiration. 

He would be sure to love a dog, and she saw no reason why 
he should not have one. It could go out at night and run 
about a little; then, by day, it would be contented to stop 
with its master in the lost court and be his dear companion. 

Dolores was devoted to dogs, and had lately adopted a 
spaniel belonging to one of the old gardeners who had been 
employed at Queen’s Quadrangles when the Eliots arrived. 
Captain de Grey had assured her that the animal was a fine 
dog, worth having, and had added that there was a man liv- 
ing within a few miles of Clere who bred spaniels. He had 
got Toddles from him. The gardener had not bought his dog 
of this person, but an ancestor of the animal’s had come from 
those kennels; and when the old man had given Dolores this 
piece of information, some memory had come up which appar- 
ently saddened him, making him very thoughtful, and tum- 

188 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


ing his nose suddenly red. Perhaps, the girl said to herself, 
the poor fellow had dearly loved the spaniel, who had maybe 
died in some tragic way, so that he could scarcely bear to be 
reminded of his sorrow even now. 

Her inspiration at once recalled this conversation concern- 
ing the breeder who still existed in the neighborhood of Clere. 
She did not question St. John de Grey, because she had a dim 
idea that the ghost would not care to associate his dog 
with De Grey, but with her only. And somehow, she thought 
that she would like that better herself. But she had a talk 
with the old gardener, and learned where the kennels were to 
be found. 

The next thing was to get a dog, and hide him somewhere 
until night came, when he could be introduced into the lost 
court. 

The girl had great liberty of action in the country, more 
liberty than an English girl, placed as she was, would have 
had, perhaps; and Frances made no objections to her taking 
a long, solitary stroll now and then, provided she promised 
to avoid all lonely byways. 

The kennels were within walking distance, and as luck 
would have it, there was a litter of adorable brown puppies, 
not yet three months old. Never, it seemed to Dolores, could 
there have been anything more beautiful than those little 
animals, with their silky coats and their loving eyes. She 
bought one which seemed to her the most engaging of all, and 
was glad that it was quite expensive. Then, with joy in her 
heart, she led the little creature away, tied to a string, but 
gayly inclined to accompany her, and wagging all the way. 

Neither of the two lodges at Queen’s Quadrangles had been 
occupied when the Eliots first took the place; but now a re- 

189 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


spectable and respectful family was established in the prin- 
cipal one. Their gate Dolores avoided to-day, and no one saw 
her enter the park followed by a cheerful spaniel puppy. She 
took it into an old summerhouse, which apparently had once 
been used as a playroom by some small Vane-Eliot boy, and 
still contained a few of his battered toys. There was a door 
which locked, though it was not kept fastened, and Dolores 
was able to secure it and carry away the key. 

It did seem a shame to shut the dog up and leave it alone, 
but she had prepared the place for his reception, with a dish 
of puppy biscuit soaked in milk and a bed made of an old rug. 
Besides, it was six o’clock when she returned with her prize; 
and in less than five hours more she hoped that she might make 
the presentation. 

The one danger was that she should receive an adverse 
signal when the time came to visit the bookroom. If she 
were not to visit the lost court that night she would not be 
able to see the ghost until she returned from London, so her 
heart beat very fast when she gave the single tap, which was 
her way of announcing that all was well. 

One answering knock came back, and she sighed with relief, 
for the tension of suspense had been great. 

The puppy was in her arms when she was admitted by the 
door under the marble terrace at half past ten that night, and 
was hidden beneath the cape of her long cloak. 

“ You have come to bid me good-by,” said the ghost, when 
he had led her to the room of the Spanish pictures, where the 
two usually sat together. 

“ Yes, for a little while,” she answered. But see what I’ve 
brought to keep you company while I’m gone.” So saying, 
she lifted her cape and showed the puppy, who, having been 

190 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

torn from sleep, was blinking innocently and adorably. “ This 
is a present from me — for you to remember me by.” 

“ A present for me — to remember you by,” the ghost said 
after her; and a charming expression lit up his face for a 
moment, as he patted the dog’s brown head, and a pink tongue 
came gratefully out to lick his wrist. Smiling, and looking 
younger than she had ever seen him look, he took the puppy 
from her arms. Setting it on the floor, he sat down and 
called it to him. In another instant the lively little creature 
was up and sprawling across his knees. 

“ This rolls away the years ! ” he exclaimed. “ I had a dog 
once — well, I won’t trust myself to talk of him even to you, 
for I — when I was taken from the world I had to leave him, 
and he was about the best pal I ever had. This little chap is 
the image of him when I had him first. Curious ! It’s almost 
as if you knew. But you didn’t know, did you.^^ ” 

Dolores had perched on the arm of a sofa, close by the chair 
where the man sat with the dog on his lap. Her hand, too, 
rested on the puppy’s brown head, and the ghost could easily 
have touched it, as if by accident. But he did not. He only 
looked at it as a poor woman who worships jewels might look 
at a string of somebody else’s pearls, just within his reach. 

‘‘ I think I must have known by intuition,” the girl an- 
swered. “ I felt you would like to have this dog, more than 
any other one I saw. Besides, he seemed to want to come, as if 
he knew, too. Altogether, it must have been meant, I’m so 
glad you love him.” 

“ I do love him, for his little, quaint self, and for my dear 
old friend lost long ago,” said the ghost. “ And I thank 
you for him — more still for the thought that prompted you 
to get him for me. But just because I do love the poor little 

191 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


fellow, I’m going to do a very hard thing — I can think of only 
one thing that would be harder for me to do.” 

“ Oh, what is it.?^ ” cried Dolores, distressed and bewildered. 

“ I’m going to ask you to take your present back.” 

The girl’s happy face fell, and disappointment sent the 
blood to her cheeks. “ You don’t want him, after all.? ” she 
asked heavily. 

“ I do want him — ^want him most horribly.” 

“ Then why — why won’t you keep him ? Are you afraid 
he’d give you trouble, or get you into danger by making a 
noise.? You needn’t be, truly, because the man I bought him of 
says he’s the best little creature in the world, used to playing 
about the house with children, although he’s so young; and 
he never barks. The man says he doesn’t believe he knows 
how.” 

“ Poor chap, let him live where he can learn to use his voice, 
and needn’t be suppressed into sadness and silence, like the 
master you’d give him to, my little friend. No, I can’t keep 
him. It would be cruel. He would be wretched here, with no 
freedom, no joy of life. He’d be miserable, and would fall ill. 
I couldn’t stand that.” 

“ He’d grow too fond of you to be miserable — and you 
could take him out at night,” Dolores pleaded. 

“ What an existence for a dog ! ” 

‘‘ You lead it, and you’re a man.” 

“ I lead it because I must. And I’ve exchanged manhood 
for ghosthood. You mustn’t forget that; God knows, I 
don’t!” 

“ Oh, I am disappointed ! ” cried the girl, very downcast. 

‘‘ That’s one thing which makes it so hard to give up the 
dog — worse even than the giving up itself, though I — it 

192 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 


would have been a lot to me to own the little beast and have 
him by me. It would have made some sunshine ; but he needs 
a lot more of that than I can give him here. Don’t you under- 
stand.^ But I know you do.” 

“ Yes, I understand,” said Dolores. “ And I like you all 
the better for it, in my heart,” she might have added ; yet she 
did not. When she had first known him, and no more personal 
human feeling had grown up out of her vast sympathy for 
him, she would have said such things as that. But she was 
more shy with him now than she had been. Perhaps it was 
just as well for him to remind her that she must not forget 
he was a ghost. Sometimes she did forget, for long minutes 
at a time. 

“ If you understand, you aren’t hurt? ” 

‘‘ Oh, no, only grieved, and for you, not myself. I thought 
it would do you good to have a dog.” 

“ So it would, but I’d rather do the dog good. I’m — 
almost used to things, and he never would be. I don’t give 
you back your present, I only ask you to keep it for me.” 

“ Is there nothing I could bring you instead ? ” 

“ Yourself — no, I oughtn’t to say that. I unsay it. You’re 
not to think, ever, that you need to come here and waste hours 
that otherwise might be sweet on a sick man.” 

“ You’re not sick, are you? ” 

“ My soul is sometimes, I’m afraid, though I try not let 
it be. I say to myself that I have myself; and a man who 
has himself ought to have all of life, because life is lived in 
the soul, no matter what surroundings there may be, and so, 
if I keep my soul’s garden well planted and weeded, I can 
have — what should be enough.” 

‘‘ And isn’t it enough? ” the girl softly asked. 

193 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


As he talked he had been fondling the dog, curled sleepily 
upon his knee, but suddenly he stopped, looking up, and 
their eyes met. 

Dolores did not know how to read what his said to her. But 
whatever they said, they seemed to try to unsay it again next 
instant, in repentance and pain. For just one breathing space 
the soul he had spoken of looked straight into hers ; then a 
veil dropped. 

‘‘ It wouldn’t be enough for this chap,” he said, smiling 
with quiet sadness, which might be resignation, or the result 
of a terrible self-control. “ He wants another sort of garden 
— with you to play with him in it. Perhaps sometimes you’ll 
bring him to see me and pay a short call.” 

She could not speak. She had a very curious sensation as 
if her heart were trembling. That look of his! What had 
it meant.'* What had it taught her of herself.'* She did not 
know. 


194 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


A BOX AT THE THEATER 

T he addition of a spaniel puppy to the household was 
a detail of no importance except to Dolores Eliot, and 
since she was to keep him, she hated to go away and 
leave the little creature just as he was beginning to grow 
fond of her. But the visit to Lady Desmond had to be made. 

Frances thought that it would do the girl good. Dolores 
had seemed to her unusually dreamy for many weeks, but the 
morning of the day fixed for the start to London she looked 
ill, or if not ill, curiously fragile — almost unreal. 

“Don’t you sleep well, Lolita ” Frances asked, sitting 
in Dolores’s room while Parker packed pretty things for 
town. 

“ Yes,” said Dolores, not thinking it necessary to mention 
that last night had been an exception, as she had hardly slept 
at all, owing to that wonderful, half joyous, half terrible 
trembling in her breast. Her heart felt like a bird in prison, 
and as if it were trying to sing of mystery and sweetness. 

“ You come up to bed early most nights,” Frances went 
on, looking critically at the girl’s great luminous eyes, and 
the pearly skin which had not as much color as it used to 
have. “ I suppose you don’t sit up reading, do you ? ” 

“ No,” answered Dolores, blushing. “ I don’t often read 
after I come upstairs.” 

“ Well, anyhow, you have the air of not getting enough 

195 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


sleep,” persisted Frances. “ I don’t suppose we’ll be in our 
beds very early at Lady Desmond’s, still it will be a change 
staying with her, and will wake you out of those day-dreams 
of yours, that you seem to be having half the time. If you 
don’t get back your color and have a better appetite, I don’t 
know what I shall do with you. Perhaps I’ll take you to Scot- 
land, or some bracing mountain place for a while.” 

“ Oh, no, I don’t want to go anywhere,” Dolores exclaimed 
hastily. ‘‘ I’m very well and — and perfectly happy.” 

Frances said no more; but now and then she threw a sly 
little wondering glance at her daughter. Perfectly happy! 
And she ate next to nothing, and had a look in her eyes as 
if she saw into another world. These were symptoms which 
might, after all, be attributed to something besides a dis- 
turbed state of health. Girls in love were said to be like that. 
As for herself, she had kept her appetite, and she had not 
had that wonderful look when she began to care for the man 
she afterwards married ; but Dolores could be happier or un- 
happier about things than, thank goodness, she had ever felt 
the capacity for being. 

They went up to town in the motor, Parker traveling by 
train with the luggage — a good deal of luggage for so short 
a stay, but Frances had been rather particular about which 
dresses and how many her daughter should take. 

Lady Desmond’s flat made a perfect frame for its mistress, 
Dolores thought. It looked over the park, and there was great 
individuality in the choice of all the furniture and decorations. 
Lady Desmond gave the mother and daughter rooms adjoin- 
ing, with walls lined with satinwood nearly as high as the 
ceiling, all the wardrobes and other fittings built into the wall, 
and made of the same beautiful wood. Dolores’s room was 

196 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


hung with pale blue, and Mrs. Eliot’s with the fresh, sweet 
green which goes best with satinwood. There were flowers in 
both ; but in the girl’s room, besides the roses which Lady Des- 
mond had provided, were quantities of Parma violets tied with 
purple ribbon, and bearing Lord Tillingbourne’s card. 

“ Marquis of Tillingboume,” Frances read over her daugh- 
ter’s shoulder, and was innocently proud. 

“ How did he know they were your favorites ? ” she in- 
quired. “ Did you ever tell him, or did he just guess ” 

“ I don’t remember,” the girl answered, wondering how 
she would be feeling if another man had sent her the flowers 
she loved best. “ I think he did ask me once — quite a long 
time ago.” 

Evidently he had not a short memory when he cared to keep 
things in his mind, and that was a great compliment from a 
young man who appeared to be rather engrossed in his own 
interests. Besides, Lady Desmond said that Lord Tilling- 
boume, though not enormously rich, was considered so attract- 
ive and so good a match that girls and girls’ mothers posi- 
tively pestered him. Frances was glad that such things did 
not happen in America; and she told Dolores that, though 
she had better wear a few of the violets in the evening, as they 
would suit her dress, she need not put on many, lest he should 
be too pleased. 

The dinner which had been suggested resolved itself into a 
festive meal given by Lord Tillingboume himself at the Ritz ; 
and he had taken a large box afterwards for a new play at 
the St. James’s. He had asked two of his brother officers; 
one being a quiet, shy major, old enough to be a colonel, who 
was quite satisfied to talk to Mrs. Eliot, while the other had 
been in love with Lady Desmond for months. 

197 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


Tillingbourne wedged his chair very close to Dolores at the 
theater, saying that he hoped he didn’t crowd her, and that 
she could see all right ; but you never could give people elbow 
room in a box. 

An American girl was the heroine of the play, and most of 
the men in the cast were supposed to be in love with her. Till- 
ingbourne had read the dramatic criticisms, a thing he seldom 
troubled to do, and knew what happened ; which was the rea- 
son why he had taken tickets for the St. James’s, instead of 
choosing some musical comedy more suited to his own taste. 
Still, even had he not wished Dolores to see this play, when 
he came to scan them over, there was scarcely a musi- 
cal comedy or light opera in London to which he would have 
taken her. He knew too many chorus girls, and some of the 
little beasts had the habit of looking up at one and making 
eyes. 

But he was in love with Dolores, and had no interest, for 
the moment, in any other girl on the stage or off. She was 
so elusive, so sweet, yet so indifferent that he wanted to take 
her in his arms, holding her so tight as almost to crush the 
breath out of her body. As she sat gazing at the actors he 
stared at her as if he could have eaten her up, and at last he 
could stand it no longer, 

“ Don’t look at them, look at me,” he whispered. “ Noth- 
ing much is happening down there just now, and a lot is hap- 
pening here.” 

She glanced at him, smiling, but a little impatient, because 
she wanted to hear what the hero’s mother was saying. 
“ What is happening.? ” she whispered back. 

“ I’m going a little off my head.” 

“ Dear me, I hope not ! Are you bored.? ” 

198 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


“ Rather not. That fellow down there isn’t half as much 
in love with his American beauty as I am with mine. That’s 
what I want — to have you for mine. You will marry me, won’t 
you.^ ” 

Dolores was completely taken by surprise. If she had been 
an English girl, she would have known before this that Till- 
ingbourne “ meant business,” because he generally fought shy 
of young unmarried women in his own class, lest they should 
think he had “ intentions.” Things that he had done and said 
and looked would long ago have prepared almost any girl 
for a proposal ; and perhaps even Dolores might have guessed 
(although men in her own country could be “ nice ” to girls 
without feeling pledged to more than niceness) if she had 
had thoughts to spare for any man outside the lost court. 
As it was, it had never occurred to her that the Mar- 
quis of Tillingbourne cared about her except as a nice little 
girl to play with when there was nothing more exciting on 
hand. 

“ Oh, I couldn’t ! ” she answered. “ But — ^but surely 
you’re joking, aren’t you.^ ” 

“ Never was as serious in my life,” said Tillingbourne. 

Neither of them knew that the curtain had just gone down 
on the second act, although Tillingbourne absent-mindedly 
and mechanically patted his hands together because every- 
body else was applauding. “ I love you awfully, you know. 
You’ve got to say Yes. I never asked any other girl to do 
that before.” 

“ Then I wish you would, please,” said Dolores. “ Because 
— it’s no use with me.” 

Tillingbourne began to be anxious. The words were noth- 
ing. He supposed that most girls felt bound to say No ” 

199 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

at first, especially American ones, who were so jolly inde- 
pendent, owing to the way their men spoiled them at home. 
But there was a grave finality about this girl’s tone which 
began to worry him. He wished that he had not begun to 
talk about these things in the theater, for it would make it 
a little awkward afterwards if she stuck to her refusal all 
the evening; but he had not expected to have much trouble 
with her. He had thought she might “ shy a bit ” at first, 
just enough to make him more keen ; but what did rich Amer- 
ican girls come to stop in England for if not to pick up a 
title As there wasn’t a decent unmarried duke in the mar- 
ket at the moment, he was the best there was — without 
exception the best there was to be had. She was exquisite, 
but she ought to think herself jolly lucky. Of course he 
would get her in the end, but he wished to Heaven she’d 
say Yes and be done with it, so that he could get a little 
peace. He’d been feeling rather queer lately, and all her 
fault, too. 

“ Why isn’t it any use with you ? ” he asked, trying to 
keep his patience. 

“ Because I don’t love you,” said Dolores. 

“ I’ll make you love me,” he whispered. 

She shook her head. “ You couldn’t.” 

The blood rushed up to his crisp yellow hair, which other 
girls so much admired. “ Is there somebody else.? ” he wanted 
to know, looking dangerous. 

“ Somebody else ! ” Dolores did not answer for a minute. 
Was there anybody else.? A tight knot seemed to tie itself 
in her throat. “ Oh, how I love him, how I love him ! ” a voice 
in her heart said. And a dreadful sadness swept over her. It 
came into her mind that she had nothing to live for. 

200 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


Is there — ^is there ? ” insisted Tillingbourne. 

She started. ‘‘ I — I don’t know. No. Of course, there’s 
nobody. I can never marry anyone, that’s all.” 

“ Oh, if that’s all ! ” exclaimed Tillingbourne, relieved, 
“ I’m not afraid. Every right sort of girl says that. — 
What.?” 

“ But I mean it.” 

She longed to run away, to be alone. This young man’s 
crude lovemaking made her realize what it would be to have 
one she loved tell her that he loved her, too. And how he 
would tell it! How wonderful his eyes would look, how dear 
his voice would sound. She had not known before that she 
loved him in this way, though she had begun to feel — she 
hardly knew how she had begun to feel last night when their 
eyes met as she asked, “ Isn’t it enough.? ” 

Strange that it should be Lord Tillingbourne who had 
shown her what was in her own heart — for another man! 
And that man.? He said of himself that he was no man, but 
a ghost. He had no place in life; his very existence was a 
shadow existence, though it was the one real thing in the 
world for her. Yet that world was between them like an 
awful barrier. He had fallen over the edge of the world, 
and she could not follow. Because he was not in her life 
there could be no warm, happy future for her, as there was 
for other girls. She felt like one who has taken the veil 
and become a nun, only to find that Heaven will not hear 
her vows, that no convent will open its door to give her 
shelter. 

And all this in the theater while the play went on. 

“ I’m going to teach you not to mean anything so cold 
and beastly,” Tillingbourne was cheerfully saying. “ I’ve al- 

201 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


ways got things I wanted, and I want you — Jove! how I 
want you ! I didn’t know it was in me. All I know is that 
I’ve got to have you.” 

“ Oh, please don’t talk about this any more,” Dolores 
begged. “ I hate hearing it. It seems almost sacrilege, 
when ” 

“ When— what.? ” 

“ I can’t explain. And anyway, the others will hear. I’m 
— going to listen to the play. You must listen, too.” 

Sulkily he obeyed and was silent. 

He loved the girl all the more for her opposition, which 
he was determined to break, but at t^e same time he was 
angry with her for it, and it would have"" given him a thrill 
of pleasure to grasp the pretty bare shoulders and shake 
them, not gently, but very hard, making marks on the white 
skin, and leaving a throb in the temples as a warning that he 
must not be teased. 

“ I will have her ! ” he said to himself, and he was in a 
mood then to have said it even if he had not known for cer- 
tain that she would come into more than a hundred thousand 
pounds on her marriage, not counting what would fall to her 
on the mother’s death. 

The three men were asked to supper at Lady Desmond’s 
after the theater, and all accepted; but it was easy to see 
from Tillingbourne’s manner that something had happened 
to upset him. Other people were not important enough in 
his scheme of existence for him to care about taking the 
trouble to hide his feelings. When he was sulky he would 
not talk, and his lower lip stood out 'a little; it always had 
in his “ ugly ” moods, since he had been a particularly dis- 
agreeable and spoiled child. 


202 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


Lady Desmond guessed that Dolores and he had had a 
misunderstanding, and when he was going she seized a chance 
— for she was clever at seizing chances — to ask what was 
wrong. 

“ She’s refused me,” answered Tillingbourne. ‘‘ I’m going 
to make her do the other thing, though — before long, too. 
I can’t stand this sort of rot. It’s beastly.” 

‘‘ Don’t worry,” cooed Nina Desmond. “ Girls must be 
allowed their airs and graces ; but I’ll have a word with her 
to-night.” 

“ Oh, I suppose it will be all right,” said Tillingbourne, 

only it isn’t pleasant. Let me know what she says to you, 
if you do have a talk, will you ? ” 

“ Of course,” Lady Desmond soothed him, giving his hand 
a gentle little squeeze at parting. 

The Eliots had been invited to town with the idea of bring- 
ing this affair off, and snatching Dolores away from St. John 
de Grey, out of his reach forever, as she would be the moment 
she became engaged to Lord Tillingbourne. It was a sicken- 
ing disappointment to Dolores’s hostess that her scheme 
should have miscarried so far; and though she encouraged 
Tillingbourne, she was anxious. 

She had hoped that Tillingbourne’s title, his position, and 
his looks might have won the American girl even if her first 
fancy had been captured by St. John’s brown face and pleas- 
ant, unassuming ways. But those ways seemed so overwhelm- 
ingly attractive to Nina that she could the more readily grant 
the danger of their holding another woman, especially a 
romantic girl like Dolores. 

Perhaps — she tried to reassure herself — Miss Eliot had 
only held back in a conventional way, or Tillingbourne had 

203 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


been too abrupt. She would not go to bed, or let the girl 
go to bed, until she had found out something definite. 

When the men had said good-night. Lady Desmond let 
Dolores slip away and kept Frances talking in the drawing- 
room. 

“ Poor Tillingboume ! ” she said, in a low, confidential 
tone, when the girl was out of hearing. “ I’m sorry for him, 
aren’t you.? Or perhaps you don’t approve.? ” 

Frances had retained in middle age a certain girlish shy- 
ness which made it hard for her to launch into intimate talk 
with comparative strangers, even when there was no secret 
to keep ; but she could hardly pretend to misunderstand with- 
out appearing ungraciously reserved. “ I — I suppose you 
think — that he’s falling in love with Lolita.?” she said, with 
a slight effort. 

“ Falling.? Oh, he’s fallen, very deep. I know — I don’t 
think. We’re old friends, and I’m a little in his confidence. 
I do hope for the poor boy’s sake that you aren’t against 
him.?” 

Her smile was so sweet and her manner so friendly, so cor- 
dially interested, that Frances’s heart warmed, and she had 
an impulse toward friendliness. 

“ Not at all. I should rather like it if Lolita would care 
for him,” she said. “ He’s very handsome ; and of course in 
a worldly way he could offer her a good deal — though no 
more than she deserves, if I do say it.” 

“ Not so much. She’s so sweet, no wonder he’s fallen in 
love — for the first time, seriously. But really, no girl could 

do much better. The duke’s rather delicate, and ” 

Oh, I don’t think of that ! ” broke in Frances, horrified. 

“ It’s not necessary,” murmured Lady Desmond, look- 

S04. 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


ing down to hide a different sort of smile, not quite so 
sweet. “ The question is — Pm afraid she’s been unkind to 
him.” 

“ He did seem depressed,” admitted Frances. 

“ He told me just before he went that she’d refused him. 
But I can’t help hoping she didn’t mean it. I like him so 
much, and he’s so devoted to her. His whole heart’s in it. 
Surely she must care for him a little? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Frances. “ I like him, too, very 
much. But I wouldn’t wish to influence her in any way. In 
my country we let girls make up their own minds.” 

‘‘ How irritating a prim little frump like this provincial 
American woman can be ! ” thought Nina Desmond, raging 
against the neat, slim creature who looked so small, so insig- 
nificant beside her. But outwardly she was all sympathy and 
kindness. 

“ How very right ! How much unhappiness would be 
avoided if we were like that in all countries,” she breathed 
devoutly. “ Here, most of us marry to please somebody else, 
not ourselves. I married — to please my brother, and re- 
gretted it. But that’s over now. Only my failure has made 
me believe all the more in the need for love. I can’t help feel- 
ing strongly that poor Tillingbourne and your sweet lily of 
a girl were made for each other. I can’t bear to see this idyll 
broken. Unless, of course — do forgive me if I’m intrusive, 
for I don’t mean it — unless she cares for anyone else in the 
States or — here.” 

“ I don’t think she does,” replied Frances gravely, not in 
the least guessing that she was being “ pumped ” by this 
great lady who was so gracious. I did rather hope — ” she 
broke off short, embarrassed. 

^05 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ You hoped? Won’t you let me know? I, too, have fallen 
in love with Dolores.” 

“ Oh, nothing, really. It was a mere idea, I thought that 
Captain de Grey liked her — but, so far as I know, he has 
never said anything.” 

This was what Nina had feared, yet what she had been 
angling for. When she heard that in all probability he had 
not yet spoken, however, she was glad ; and she wondered if a 
thing which she had said had taken effect. She had told him 
that Dolores seemed drawn at first sight to Tillingbourne, 
and that she feared she had been called too late to do him — St. 
John — much good with the girl. 

“ I dare say he does like her,” she said softly now to 
Frances ; “ but he is very honorable. I don’t believe he will 
ever say anything.” Then, when Mrs. Eliot looked surprised, 
she went on as if reluctantly. “ He was fond of a married 
woman a little while ago, and though there was nothing 
wrong, he got her rather talked about. She’s awfully fond of 
him still, and though he may be tired of her, I don’t think he’ll 
feel it right to marry while she lives.” 

Frances looked shocked, and Lady Desmond was delighted 
with her own success. There was just enough basis of truth 
for the first part of the story to make it difficult for St. John 
to deny, if anything were said to him. 

“ May I sound your dear little girl, a tiny, tiny bit, to see 
what she thinks of Tillingbourne? ” she coaxed. “ If you did 
it, she might think you were anxious for her to marry him, 
and I quite see that wouldn’t do. But with me — I should not 
be able to influence her, even if I tried, which I wouldn’t dream 
of doing. Do let me just go to her room to say good-night — 
and a few other little things? ” 

206 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


Frances could not refuse, nor did she wholly wish to refuse. 
It had been a blow to hear that story about St. John de Grey. 
He did not seem like that sort of man. But a woman could 
never tell. And Lord Tillingbourne was younger. Lady Des- 
mond, who had know him for years, said that this was his 
first love. Perhaps it would be better if Lolita could care for 
him ; and it would do no harm if an old friend of his said nice 
things about him to the child to-night. 

So Lady Desmond knocked, and went into the pretty satin- 
wood room with its blue curtains, its softly shaded electric 
lights, and its scent of flowers. Dolores already had on her 
dressing gown, and her hair hung in a dark cloud over her 
shoulders and down below her waist. Nina Desmond looked at 
her enviously. She was so very young, and her smooth throat 
was like a slender column of alabaster. Nina’s was beginning 
to be less firm than it had been, and she bound cosmetic things 
round it at night. Also she had her maid rub a dressing into 
her hair to keep it from falling out. She hated youth — other 
women’s youth — ^now that she was losing hers, and she clung 
desperately to what was left her of beauty and love. 

Parker was busy at the other end of the room, and her back 
was turned. 

“ Send your maid away,” Nina whispered. “ I want to 
speak to you.” 

Dolores told the woman that she would not need her any 
more that night, and Parker flitted away to help Mrs. Eliot. 




807 


CHAPTER TWENTY 


THE LOCKET AND LADY DESMOND 

Y OU won’t think I rush in where angels fear to tread, 
will you?” asked Nina, with her loveliest smile. 
“ Tillingbourne made his little wail to me. I like him. 
You know that, don’t you? ” 

“ I know that you’re very kind,” said Dolores, rather 
wearily. 

Nina laughed. “ Modest little thing ! Doesn’t it appreciate 
its own attractions? Poor Tillingbourne! What are you 
going to do with him? You could be the making of that boy, 
dear.” 

“ Only if I loved him.” 

“ But — can’t you try to love him? Other girls don’t find 
it difficult.” 

“ Then let him go to one of those other girls and forget 
about me.” 

“ He won’t do that, perhaps because they don't find it 
difficult.” 

“ I’m sorry. But I can’t help it.” 

“ Are you sure? ” 

“ Very, very sure.” 

Dolores’s tone disheartened Lady Desmond. This was no 
girlish caprice, evidently; and the young voice sounded so 
tired that the experienced woman guessed that Dolores had 
some trouble which she was hiding. Of course, it might he 

208 


CHAPTER TWENTY 


nothing more serious than regret at giving Lord Tilling- 
bourne pain ; but Nina did not believe it was that. If it were, 
Dolores would not be flippantly recommending him to go and 
be consoled by other girls. 

“There is some one else; I don’t care what her mother 
thinks,” Lady Desmond said to herself. 

She looked closely at Dolores, who was nervously unfasten- 
ing a string of pearls from her throat, with an air of wish- 
ing to busy herself with something. 

“ How she wishes I would go ! ” she thought. “ But I won’t 
— yet.” A sudden inspiration told her that if she hoped to 
find out anything it must be by surprising the girl. 

“ If you’re so sure you can never change your mind about 
Tillingboume, it must be because there’s another man in your 
heart already,” she said abruptly. 

At least, she had succeeded in taking Dolores by surprise. 
Such a suggestion from her tactful hostess came as a blow. 
Unnerved already by the mental crisis through which she had 
passed, the girl winced at the unexpected attack, and let the 
pearls drop on the floor. In stooping to pick them up — an ex- 
cuse to hide her face before answering — out from among the 
lace frills of her dressing gown tumbled a locket attached to 
a gold chain delicate as a hair. Seeing her secret treasure 
flash into sight, Dolores forgot the pearls. She let them lie 
where they had fallen, in the white fur of a polar bear, and 
hastily gathered up the chain ; but the clasp which fastened 
it together had slipped round from the back, and caught in 
her lace sleeve. For an instant she was helpless ; and that in- 
stant gave Nina Desmond her chance. 

“ Let me help you, dear,” she said. Then without wait- 
ing for Dolores’s assent, she stepped quickly forward and 

m 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

caught up the end of the chain where the locket hung, face 
inward. 

“ Oh, don’t — please ! ” cried Dolores. But she was too late. 
Lady Desmond had — as if inadvertently caused the open- 
faced locket to swing round and give up its secret. 

Her eyes sprang vividly to the painted miniature, for she 
knew that she was doing a monstrous thing, a thing which 
the girl would never in her heart forgive, no matter what ex- 
cuses might be made, and the one hope was to learn the truth 
at a glance ; there would never be an opportunity for another. 
If the face were De Grey’s, then the affair between the two 
must have made rapid advances while Nina was absent in 
Scotland, and in the fraction of a second between snatching 
the chain and twisting it round for a look at the locket, she 
almost prayed that the face she was about to see might not 
be St. John’s. She had felt that the relief of finding some one 
else enshrined would be the most exquisite sensation she had 
known for years ; but at sight of the tiny likeness painted so 
carefully by Dolores, Nina Desmond dropped the chain as if 
it had burned her fingers. 

She uttered no sound, but the quick drawing in of her 
breath was a gasp. 

Dolores, terrified at the revelation of a secret not hers alone, 
forgot to resent Lady Desmond’s prying. Her frightened 
eyes sought Nina’s and asked the question her lips would not 
speak: “Do you know — do you remember that face.?” 

The other’s pallor answered, and added to the girl’s terror. 
Dolores would have put her right hand in the fire sooner than 
let its handiwork betray the man whose secret she was pledged 
to keep. She would have given anything if she had never 
copied the portrait he had so trustingly made at her request. 

210 


CHAPTER TWENTY 


She had been cruelly thoughtless to run this risk, she realized 
when it was too late, and she had yet to learn how much harm 
was done. But she had been so cautious in hiding the exist- 
ence even of the thin gold chain ! How could she have dreamed 
of an accident like this.'^ 

For a moment Lady Desmond stood still, as if dazed. Her 
blood was drumming in her temples. She looked frightened, 
horrified ; and the sallow pallor of her face added to Dolores’s 
fear. 

“ Who is that man.?^ ” Nina asked at last. 

“ It is cowardly and vulgar to tell lies,” were the words 
that echoed in the girl’s ears, as always if she were tempted 
from the truth. Her father’s words; but she could not let 
them guide her now, for she was called upon to fight for 
somebody who could not fight for himself — somebody whose 
cause she had already more than half betrayed. 

‘‘No one,” she replied firmly. 

Presence of mind came slowly back to Nina Desmond. She 
must know how and where the girl had found this miniature. 
It was like an insult to her that this young stranger from 
America should be wearing it, secretly, over her heart. And 
to have seen it when expecting to see the face of St. John de 
Grey was horrible to her. It was as if a blood-stained ghost 
had risen between her and the man she had learned to love so 
passionately. 

“ That is no answer,” she said, in the tone she used to her 
maid; and something of her real feeling for Dolores shot from 
the gray-green eyes. 

The girl’s pride rose. “ Why should I answer you at all. 
Lady Desmond ? ” 

Nina remembered herself — and prudence. “ Forgive me,” 

211 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

she cried changing abruptly to gentleness. “ You don’t know, 
you can’t know, my reasons. But I have good ones — the best 
- — for questioning you. I’ll explain presently. But if you 
keep me at arm’s length about this, I shall have to go to 
your mother. It will be my duty. But first, as a favor I ask 
you again: who is that man whose picture you are wearing.'^ ” 

‘‘ I don’t know who he is.” Dolores was at bay now. She 
was determined that Lady Desmond should learn nothing. 

“ You don't know who he is? Yet you wear his picture in- 
side your dress — ^you hide it there Miss Eliot, is this a secret 
from your mother.'* ” 

“ There is no secret, because there’s nothing to tell,” the 
girl replied doggedly. 

“ You mean — you know nothing about this man.^ ” 

“ Nothing — whatever. I admired his picture, that’s all. So 
I’m wearing it.” 

A little color came back to Nina’s face. “ Is that true.^ ” 
she persisted. 

Dolores blushed. “ I don’t tell fibs. Lady Desmond.” 

“ I beg your pardon. You must think me abominable. But 
when I’ve told you — or your mother — why I ” 

“ I’d rather you wouldn’t tell my mother anything,” said 
the girl, her cheeks a bright rose color. “ There’s no secret. 
I’ve just said there wasn’t, and you must believe me. But you 
haven’t a right to talk about a thing that — that you’ve found 
out in such a way. And — and I do think it was abominable of 
you. Lady Desmond.” 

“ Really, it was all an accident,” Nina assured her. “ I 
thought to help you. How could I suppose that a child like 
you would be hiding a man’s picture under her dress .?* Do 
forgive me for speaking plainly, for you can hardly guess 

212 


CHAPTER TWENTY 


how it strikes me* Perhaps girls are brought up differently in 
America, but here it seems — rather shocking. If I had any 
thought in my mind about the chain, it was that it held some 
little talisman — a medal with your patron saint on it, per- 
haps. But, good heavens, what a patron saint! Believe me, 
the best thing you can do is to confide in me about this thing, 
for otherwise your mother must be told. The very fact that 
you don’t want her to know shows that you feel you’ve been 
doing wrong, though how wrong I’m sure you can’t possibly 
dream.” 

“ The reason I don’t want mother to be told is because, she 
would think me very silly and romantic to carry about the 
picture of a man whose very name I don’t know.” 

“ You don’t know his name? ” 

“ No. Not even that.” 

“ Where did you find his picture? ” 

Dolores was silent for a few seconds. Then she answered: 

At home ; at Queen’s Quadrangles.” 

“0-oh! You found it.” Lady Desmond’s exclamation 
faded into a sigh, perhaps of relief. “No one said anything 
about it to you? Not Lady Rosamund, or anyone else? ” 

“No one at all.” And this was true, for not even to the 
ghost of the lost court had Dolores spoken of the likeness 
she had painted. 

“ Nobody has ever spoken to you of this man, then? ” 

The girl shook her head. 

“ Then let me tell you that the best thing you can do is 
to throw his picture into the fire, and forget that you ever saw 
it.” 

“No. I won’t do that! ” Dolores exclaimed. 

“ Give it to me, and let me burn it, if you won’t yourself.’’ 

^13 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“No. I shall keep it. There’s no harm in that.” 

“ There is harm,” said Nina Desmond in a hard, strained 
voice, as if speaking with an effort. “ It’s a terrible thing 
that a picture of this man should have been left lying about 
at Queen’s Quadrangles, for a young girl like you to find, 
and build up a romance about. You had better hear the truth 
now, and then you will throw away that miniature without 
being told to do it. That man committed a horrible and cow- 
ardly crime. I — oh, I find that I can’t speak of it, even after 
all these years. It makes me sick — sick.” 

Nina Desmond put her hands before her face, as if she shut 
away from her eyes some dreadful sight. “ Will you throw 
the picture into the fire now.?^ ” she asked chokingly. 

“ No,” said Dolores, very pale. “ I don’t believe that a man 
with a face like that could have committed a horrible crime.” 

Lady Desmond looked at her strangely. “ He confessed 
it,” she said. “ It’s hideous to talk of, but — for your sake I’ll 
try to tell you the story of ” 

“ No,” the girl cut her short, “ I won’t hear it — from you.” 


214 } 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 


LIFE IS A DREAM 

T hough Dolores had refused to hear the tale that 
Lady Desmond would have told her, she thought of 
nothing else. 

“ So that is why — ” she would begin to say to herself, and 
then break the thought in two, with violence. It was terrible 
to her that anyone should be able to speak of his past, hidden 
from her, as Lady Desmond had spoken, and she longed to 
defend him ; but she could not, for she was supposed to know 
nothing of his existence. And since he had not wished her to 
hear any of the neighborhood gossip which she might have 
picked up, concerning a tragedy of long ago, she would not 
even think about that tragedy, if she could put it out of her 
mind. 

As a punishment to herself for what she called her careless- 
ness, she would not wear the miniature, but laid it away in her 
jewel case, and wore instead, on the gold chain, the key which 
locked the box. 

The mother and daughter were not quite so frankly happy 
together as usual, during the rest of their stay in London, 
though they left Lady Desmond’s the day after the theater 
party, according to the plan made before coming. There was 
plenty to do in town, but Frances was anxious about Dolores’s 
state of mind, and did not like to question the girl concerning 

215 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


her feeling for Lord Tillingbourne or Captain de Grey ; while 
as for Dolores, it was a pain to have secret worries which she 
could not tell her .mother, and somehow all the sadder to feel 
that she did not wish to tell. 

They bought a great many pretty things, including favors 
for the cotillon which was to be the climax of the fancy dress, 
dance which Frances meant soon to give, and tired themselves 
out before returning to Queen’s Quadrangles — each glad to 
get back, though for different reasons. 

It was evening when they arrived, almost time to dress for 
dinner, and Dolores’s first thought was to go into the book- 
room to give the signal that she was there, and would be free 
that night. But almost immediately came the answer, five 
knocks, which meant that she must not come. 

Of all the mysteries surrounding the lost court, and the 
ghost of the lost court, this adverse signal seemed one of the 
most obscure. She had begun to take the mysteries more or 
less for granted, but she could not understand this. The ghost 
was always alone ; he had nothing to do save to read or paint ; 
he had said that her coming was like sunshine, that it gave 
him the only happiness he could know; yet occasionally he 
refused to see her, and never explained why. 

She had almost dreaded the first time of meeting him again, 
after this London visit when her eyes had been fully opened to 
her own feelings. Yet she had longed for it as well, and had 
counted every moment until the one when she might run to the 
bookroom and give the signal. 

It had not occurred to her that, after this absence which 
seemed so long, he could have the heart to make it still longer ; 
but this was his greeting. She wished to call to him through 
the wall, but dared not. Probably, even if she called loudly, 

216 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 

he could not hear her words, and to do so would be a great 
risk. 

Deeply disappointed, the girl went slowly away, to play 
with the new spaniel puppy as the most consoling thing she 
could do. 

Yet perhaps it was as well, after all, that she had been de- 
nied her visit, for at bedtime Frances followed her to her room, 
and, after an elaborate preamble, apparently apropos of 
nothing, let drop the information given by Nina Desmond 
concerning St. John. 

Frances retold in perfect innocence what had been told to 
her, for (she argued) if Lady Desmond were right, and Do- 
lores had begun to care a little for Captain de Grey, it would 
be better to warn her in time, though it was sad that such a 
warning should be necessary. It did not occur to her that Nina 
might have been fighting for her own hand, nor would it have 
occurred to the still less experienced Dolores, if it had not been 
for her sudden change of feeling toward the woman who had 
fascinated her. 

She did not like Lady Desmond now, and she did not believe 
that Lady Desmond liked her, in spite of many protestations. 
Dreamy and poetic as was one side of the girl’s nature, she 
inherited something of her father’s shrewdness, a quality 
which she had seldom been called upon to use in her brief and 
sheltered life. Now, as her mother spoke the conviction flashed 
into her mind that Lady Desmond was herself in love with St. 
John de Grey. 

The fact that she should have this thought showed that, 
unconsciously, she had been learning worldly experience in the 
past few weeks. She had heard the gossip of the country- 
side, though paying little attention to it, and it had gone in 

^17 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


at one ear if out at the other, that women did sometimes fall 
in love with men younger than themselves, and that even great 
ladies occasionally stooped to mean acts in their own interests. 

Dolores recalled, half guiltily, that she had noticed how 
Lady Desmond always heard everything Captain de Grey 
said, no matter who else was talking; how she always ap- 
peared to see him come into a room or leave it, no matter 
how much occupied she was, or how many other people were 
there. 

“ If she cares about him herself, maybe that’s why she 
would like me to say ‘ Yes ’ to Lord Tillingbourne,” the girl 
thought, ashamed of such wicked wisdom. And then, a still 
more worldly idea sprang into her head. If she wanted to 
punish Lady Desmond for her rude intrusiveness, and other 
things, she would perhaps only have to be very, very nice to 
Captain dfe Grey. 

Of course, she said to herself, she would do nothing of the 
kind. It would be most unworthy, and altogether mean; yet 
the fancy would flit back and forth in her mind that maybe 
she had now some power over Lady Desmond, if she should 
wish to use it. 

Next evening, she went again to give the signal to the pris- 
oner of the lost court, but again came the adverse knocks; 
and this happened for several evenings in succession, until 
Dolores’s heart was heavy with the mystery and sadness of her 
banishment. 

Meanwhile, the invitations to the ball had gone out; just 
an “ At Home ” card of Mrs. Eliot’s, with “ Dancing ” writ- 
ten across one corner, in Frances’s sincere, painstaking little 
hand, and “ Fancy Dress ” across the other. 

Lady Desmond wired that she was coming to Tillingbourne 
^18 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 


Court with a large party of friends, and would bring dozens 
of men to dance. She could not accept her dear Mrs. Eliot’s 
invitation to stop at Queen’s Quadrangles, because — well, 
frankly, because of Lady Rosamund V.-E. She would not 
have the courage to put herself overnight beneath the same 
roof with that lady. 

A whole week had gone by, counting the visit to London, 
since Dolores and the ghost of the lost court had met ; but at 
last, one evening — just when the girl had half made up her 
mind never to knock again, if she were again denied — came 
back the raps which meant an invitation. 

It seemed so long since they saw each other, and she had 
felt so much in the interval, that Dolores almost expected to 
see a change in the man who held her thoughts. But she could 
find no difference,' unless, perhaps, something more of reserve 
in his manner. She tried to think, though, that this might be 
in her own imagination, because she herself felt a certain new 
shyness with him. She was tinglingly conscious that she loved 
him, and that to love him was the wildest, maddest thing a 
girl had ever done or could do. Nothing could come of such 
a love except misery, and the only hope left was that he might 
never guess. 

He did not explain why he had not let her come to him, 
though he did say, almost stiffly, that losing her companion- 
ship had been a cause of deep regret. “ I’ve missed you a 
great deal,” he said at last, as if the words would come in 
spite of some need to keep them back ; and then Dolores, in a 
panic lest she should show herself too pleased with the admis- 
sion, began hurriedly to tell such news as she had saved for 
him. She spoke of the coming dance, as if she delighted 
in the idea, and talked more of Lord Tillingbourne and Cap- 

S19 


% 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

tain de Grey than she ever had before. This was in her in- 
stinctive wish to hide from him that in reality he was the 
one man in her thoughts. She must let him understand 
that there were others ; that she cared for him only as a 
friend who would be interested, in a friendly way, in her 
small doings. 

“ I’m going to have a pretty dress for the dance,” she said. 
“ The very prettiest I ever had; and do you know, I can re- 
member all my dresses since I’ve been grown up — every one, 
in a long procession.” 

“ How young you are ! ” he exclaimed, his smile rather wist- 
ful. “ So young that you can remember every dress you ever 
had ! I wish I could see you in the new one — though all your 
dresses seem wonderful to me.” 

“ I’ll come and show myself to you, in the midst of the 
dancing, if I can run away,” said Dolores. “ I’m going to be 
Undine, with a crystal veil and showers of crystal beads over 
billows of white and green chiffon.” 

“ Oh, but what I should like is to see you at the ball, as 
other men who aren’t ghosts will see you,” said the man who 
was a ghost. “ I want to see you as Tillingbourne and De 
Grey and the others will see you. I should like you to give me 
three or four dances, as you’ll give them.” 

“ How I wish it might be! ” sighed Dolores. “ Used you to 
dance when — when ” 

“ When I was alive.? Yes, I was rather fond of it. I was 
young, like those others, when I was alive. You see, I died 
young.” 

“ Don’t speak like that. I can’t bear it I ” Dolores cried. 

‘‘ I won’t then. We’ll talk of the ball. How many dances 
are you going to give Lord Tillingbourne ? ” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 

‘‘ Only one,” said Dolores. 

“ He’ll want more.” 

I don’t know. I only know he won’t get them.” 

“ But De Grey ? How many is he to have ? ” 

Oh, he’s different ! He shall have as many as he likes.” 

“ That may be saying a good deal.” 

“ He dances gloriously — ^as well as he rides and plays ten- 
nis,” said Dolores, still bent on showing the ghost, who had 
deliberately kept her at a distance for so long, that she was 
interested in others. But the tight line of pain that came as 
he pressed his lips suddenly together brought her a pang of 
horrified remorse. How cruel she was to talk of dancing, and 
riding, and tennis, and things that other men could do, while 
he could do nothing ! She hated herself, and tried so hard to 
think of some way of turning the subject that she found 
herself tongue-tied. 

He did not speak for a moment. His eyes looked dull and 
tired, but suddenly they brightened, and he smiled at her with 
a new recklessness and daring that changed his face. “ Will 
you do me a favor on the night of the ball? ” he asked. 

“ Of course. You know I will,” said Dolores. 

“ Keep one dance free, to give me in your thoughts. No 
matter who tries^ to persuade you to dance it, promise that 
you won’t; promise you’ll sit and imagine you are my 
partner.” 

“ I should love to do that ! ” exclaimed the girl. “ I wish 
I’d thought of it myself before you did, because it’s a charm- 
ing idea.” 

“ I’m rather glad it was I who thought of it first,” said the 
ghost. “ It’s a promise, then? ” 

“ Yes. An engagement. What dance will you have? ” 

221 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ It must be a waltz. Will you tell the musicians to play an 
old favorite of mine — when I was in the world Perhaps, 
then, I can hear some faint echo of it even here in prison.” 

His tone was not sad now, but excited and almost gay, 
yet for that reason it was the more pathetic to Dolores. It 
hurt her to think that his only pleasure could be in hearing 
a far-away strain of the music to which happier people 
danced. 

‘‘ What shall it be ? ” she asked, dropping her long eye- 
lashes to hide a suspicious glitter, like rising tears. 

An old-fashioned thing. But what would you have ! Vm 
a thing of the past, and this air reminds me of some pleasant 
hours. ‘ Life is a Dream.’ Will you remember.? ” 

“ It’s easy to remember,” said Dolores, “ for life often 
seems to me like that — at least, part of it does. I — ” she 
stopped quickly. She might have said things safer left unsaid. 
“ It shall be the last dance but one, before supper and the 
cotillon. You mustn’t forget to be thinking of me — a little 
before twelve.” 

“ I won’t forget to be thinking of you then,” he said, with 
rather an odd emphasis, which made Dolores glance up sud- 
denly ; but he was not looking at her. “ My thoughts will 
run about seeking for you, and they’ll find you, wherever 
you are.” 

“ That will be a week from to-night,” the girl reflected 
aloud. 

She would not ask him if they were to meet again mean- 
while, but she hoped th^ he would tell her; for she could not 
come and knock only to be sent away, night after night, as 
had happened before. Her eyes put the question her lips 
would not speak, however, and he answered it. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 


“ Come and talk to me just once more before that night,” 
he said. “ Let it be the evening before the dance, if you can. 
Until then — it’s best for me to be alone. Oh, not that I won’t 
want you ! You couldn’t think that, could you, my — kind 
little friend I want you — always. But — well, I can’t give 
you any reasons for keeping you away. Only this: that it’s 
for the best.” 

Still, she could not help feeling hurt that he should bid her 
to stop away for a whole week. Surely, he could have her with 
him if he wanted her very much. What if it should be that he 
had guessed how much she cared, and was trying to break 
with her now, gently? He had seemed cold, or at least re- 
served, and then, just at the last, had been himself again. 
Yet the end was that he had told her it was “ best for him 
to be alone.” 

She did not dispute the decision, of course, but she went 
away very miserable, and could think of no better way of con- 
soling herself during the week than by flirting a little with 
Captain de Grey. 

He was so pleasant and so kind. To flirt with him hardly 
seemed like flirting. It amused her, and kept her mind from 
dwelling on things so sad that the mere thinking of them 
seemed to crush out her youth ; and then it made him happy. 
The girl was not quite sure that he was seriously in love with 
her; for he was not intense and rather terrifying like Lord 
Tillingbourne, but always seemed ready to laugh and see the 
funny side of things, so that she could feel she was not hurt- 
ing him very much, whatever happened. 

Then Lady Desmond arrived at Tillingbourne Court, and 
Lord Tillingbourne came the same day, for he found little 
trouble in getting leave when he wanted it. Dolores was cool 

223 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


to him, for he had alarmed her a little on the night of his 
theater party, and she did not wish to give him another 
chance to speak again about his feelings. She wanted him 
to realize that if he had any hope left he must give it 
up. Accordingly, she was more than ever friendly in her 
manner to St. John when Lord Tillingbourne was there 
to see. 

There had been many oold, wet days during that summer, 
but September had been mild, and October was proving 
warmer than it had been in June. The night of the fancy 
dress dance at Queen’s Quadrangles was perfect, and the 
double glass doors which led from the ballroom into the 
cypress court stood wide open, to show the court beautifully 
illuminated. The fountain court, too, was lit by many Chi- 
nese lanterns, and fairy lamps half hidden among palms and 
flowers ; while under the falling spray of the fountain itself 
rose-colored lights were arranged in such a way as to trans- 
form the falling drops to rubies. 

There could scarcely be a house better planned for enter- 
taining than was Queen’s Quadrangles ; and Lady Rosamund, 
though she had appeared startled on first hearing of the ball, 
had eventually done her best to make the place beautiful for 
the occasion. She had herself decorated the great hall and 
the two drawing-rooms, with flowers. The colored lights in 
the cypress and fountain courts were her idea; and hers was 
the scheme of decoration for the supper tables. 

She had been looking even more white and frail than usual, 
for the past few weeks, but she only smiled when Dolores sug- 
gested that she was doing too much. 

“ I want your ball to be a success,” she said to the girl ; 
“ and I should like to feel that some very small part of the 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE 

success was owing to me. I have been able to do so little for 
you.” 

She did not say that she knew she had hindered, rather 
than helped, her tenants so far; but Dolores felt that some 
such thought was in her mind, and was drawn toward her with 
a mysterious sympathy. 


225 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 


A FIGURE IN ARMOR 

A FTER all, the girl had not been able to visit the lost 
/-% court the night before the ball, because of a small im- 
promptu dance at Sir George Gaines’, to which 
Frances had wished to take her ; but Dolores was not wholly 
sorry for this. She had wished to see the prisoner, and had 
longed for the night to come that she might go to him; yet 
when she found herself prevented, she had said that perhaps 
it was as well. She must not make herself too cheap. And she 
had tapped out her adverse signal with a kind of miserable 
satisfaction. 

When she saw Undine’s shimmering reflection in the mirror, 
however, tears started to her eyes as she remembered what the 
ghost had said. He had wanted to see her in that dress. If 
only she could fly to him, if but for a moment! Yet she had 
volunteered to show herself to him, and he had not accepted 
flhe offered visit. Now, it was too late in any case, for the hour 
of signaling was long past, and she had not gone to the 
bookroom. Even if she wished to go, in spite of all, without 
the signal, the door under the terrace would be but a block 
of marble. 

It was not a very large dance, for the Eliots’ circle of ac- 
quaintance was limited; but by this time almost everyone of 
importance within many miles had followed the Duke of 
Bridgewater’s example and called at Queen’s Quadrangles. 

^26 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 


They had all been invited to the ball, and had accepted. Some 
had asked to bring friends who were staying with them; and 
Lady Desmond had brought a big party. Besides, there were 
a few American friends staying in London who had come 
down to Queen’s Quadrangles for the night. 

There were more than a hundred people dancing in the 
great white ballroom by the time eleven o’clock had struck, 
and as they were all in fancy dress, with brilliant costumes 
of different ages and countries, the scene on which the old 
Vane-Eliot portraits looked down was like a moving picture. 

Dolores was too young not to be excited by the dancing and 
the music ; and her heart was beating fast and her eyes shin- 
ing as the time drew near for the waltz she had saved for the 
ghost. She was like a girl who waits the coming of her lover. 

She had refused to dance it with Lord Tillingbourne and 
De Grey and several others, whom she forgot even as she sent 
them away with the answer that she was. “ engaged for that 
waltz.” And for the gallop which came before, she had chosen 
her partner with an eye to getting rid of him easily after- 
wards. 

He was a young and pink youth, who had been so much 
chaffed by his friends because of the character he had unluck- 
ily chosen to represent — that of Henry VHI — that he was 
reduced almost to tears by the time the evening was half 
over; and his one desire was to escape to the supper room 
where he might drown his sorrows in lobster salad and 
champagne. 

While Dolores dutifully danced with her pink partner, her 
thoughts flew ahead to the next dance. 

‘‘ Where would he like me to sit and think of him, while his 
favorite waltz is played ? ” she was wondering ; and it seemed 

227 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

to her that when the time came she would feel him calling 
her. 

Suddenly the answer seemed to come, as if his voice had 
spoken it. “ The bookroom ! ” 

Why, of course, she must go to the bookroom. She ought 
to have thought of that at first, never doubting that it was 
the one place for her thought-dance with an invisible partner. 
She would be nearer to him there than anywhere else, sepa- 
rated only by double wainscoting and the small space between. 
Besides, the library through which she must pass, before she 
could reach and shut herself up in the bookroom, was not sup- 
posed to be open to guests. Splendid as was the vast, darkly 
wainscoted room with its deep-set windows, it was gloomy at 
night, even with its full array of a hundred wax candles 
in silver candelabra. In consultation. Lady Rosamund and 
Frances had agreed that, even for flirtatious couples, more al- 
luring places could be arranged in the great hall, and the 
fountain and cypress court; therefore, though the library 
door was not locked against invaders, nothing had been done 
to make the room especially attractive. Nobody would be 
there, Dolores thought, and she could hide in the bookroom 
as long as she liked without danger of being tracked down by 
any importunate partner. 

Pm quite giddy,” said Undine to Henry VIII, when 
their gallop was half over. “ Let’s stop and rest. And oh, 
would you mind going to look for my lilies.'^ I had a lovely 
bunch, and I’ve lost them somewhere.” 

The pink youth led her out from the ballroom into the great 
hall. There she chose a seat close to an open glass door, lead- 
ing into the cypress court, which would be for her a way of 
escape. Each side of this door was usually guarded by a tall 

228 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 

figure in armor, visor down, lance afid shield in hand, and one 
Dolores had named “ Sir Launcelot.” Close to him stood an 
old settle of carved oak, which might once have graced some 
monastery, and there the girl often chose to sit, propped up 
with cushions, to read the “ Idylls of the King,” or Malory’s 
‘‘ Morte d’Arthur,” an occupation she considered appropriate 
to that particular spot. 

Now, she had seated herself on this old settle, awaiting a 
convenient moment to slip away when no man she knew was 
looking. 

St. John de Grey, dressed as a Troubadour, passed with 
Lady Desmond, very wonderful as Cleopatra, a diamond asp 
twisted round her ^throat. St. John threw rather a wistful 
glance toward the slender, crystal-sparkling figure of Undine 
on the carved seat, but went on toward the fountain court, 
according to his partner’s wish. 

Then Lord Tillingbourne sauntered by, a cavalier of 
Charles II’s day, his costume a family heirloom. He was 
partnerless, and looked sulky, though handsome, and Dolores 
was in a fright lest he should see and follow her. He passed, 
with his back half turned to her, glancing round as if search- 
ing for some one, and Dolores feared that she knew too well 
who that “ some one ” was. Lest he should turn fully, she 
jumped up, with the idea of stepping behind King Arthur, 
whose big shield would screen her for an instant, until she 
could whisk through the open door. 

To her surprise, however, the figure was gone ; and on the 
low, velvet-colored platform where it had always stood resting 
its shield and lance, was a suit of ancient Japanese armor, 
whose place had been in the entrance hall. 

So surprised was Dolores at the absence of King Arthur 

229 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

that for an instant she forgot the danger of being discovered 
by Lord Tillingbourne. 

“ I wonder who took him away, and when — and why ? ” she 
asked herself. “ I suppose mother and Lady Rosamund must 
have thought the contrast between the old English armor and 
the Japanese would be interesting, but I don’t suppose any 
of these people notice or care; and I shall beg them to put 
King Arthur back to-morrow. I like him to be here.” 

Then, as Lord Tillingbourne spoke for a minute with 
Gladys Gaines, who was trying hard to live up to the charac- 
ter of “ Queen of Hearts,” Dolores slipped out into the 
cypress court; thus, to a corridor off from the long gallery, 
and on to the library. 

Tlje door was ajar as if somebody had lately come in or 
passed out ; but peering into the dimness, Dolores saw no one. 

No more than a dozen tall wax candles had been lit, and 
their light was almost lost in the huge room, swallowed up by 
the shadows which seemed to steal out from the dark oak 
wainscoting every night as soon as twilight fell. 

The candle flames, like tiny points of silver alloyed with 
gold, were dotted here and there against the black walls, but 
the room mostly owed such illumination as it had to the great 
mullioned window of painted glass set in the center of the 
south wall, between rows of bookshelves. 

It was very old glass, with the family crest and motto em- 
blazoned upon it in deep, rich colors. Now, the moonlight 
which could not penetrate the deep-set windows in the east 
streamed through these jeweled panes, throwing reflections 
like scattered flower petals — rose, azure, purple and gold — on 
the bare, polished floor. 

The room looked an ideal place for a ghost to walk ; and as 

2S0 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 

Dolores opened the door it seemed to her that something moved 
among the shadows by the stone-pillared fireplace. 

“Is anyone there ” she called timidly, for the mystery 
of the vast moonlit room thrilled her fancy with strange 
thoughts. 

No one answered; and as she advanced a step or two, star- 
ing through the dusk, she told herself that the movement had 
been nothing more than some wavering shadow caused hy a 
candle that flickered with the draught. The fireplace (with 
its stone wolves rampant) was guarded, as was the tall en- 
trance to the cypress court, by figures in armor, one on either 
side. Dolores could see them, as she looked past the chimney- 
piece to the door of the bookroom ; and it seemed to her that 
to-night there were three figures instead of two; but one — 
the farthest one — might be only a shadow of the mailed form 
in front. 

The girl had begun to cross the room, when she remem- 
bered that, safe as the library seemed to be from intruders, it 
might be wiser to shut the door which she had left ajar. She 
ran back, and had just grasped the handle when it was turned 
from the other side, pushed forcibly in spite of her faint re- 
sistance, and Lord Tillingbourne came in. 

It was so dark that she could not have recognized his fea- 
tures, but his flowing golden wig under the plumed, cavalier 
hat, his red velvet coat, his tall, broad-shouldered figure, and 
his slightly swaggering walk, were unmistakable. 

“ I’ve followed you,” he said. “ You didn’t think I saw you 
in the hall, but I did, as you slipped out. You refused me this 
waltz, because you said you were engaged, but you’ve come 
here alone. For whom are you waiting here in the dark.'* By 
Jove, it’s more than I can stand to think of any other man 

2S1 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

meeting you here! He shan’t have the game all to him- 
self.” 

As he spoke, he shut the door, and stood with his back 
against it. 

“No one is coming to meet me here,” said Dolores, angry 
and distressed at the interruption. Through the closed door 
she caught faintly the distant strains of “ Life is a Dream.” 
Her thought-waltz with the ghost was beginning. She would 
not be cheated of it by Lord Tillingbourne, whom she sud- 
denly felt that she almost hated. 

“ I came to be alone,” she went on sharply. “ Please go I ” 

“No,” said Lord Tillingbourne, “I won’t! I may never 
get such another chance with you as this if I don’t take it 
now, for you’ve been treating me as you wouldn’t treat those 
beastly little spaniels of yours, and I don’t propose to stand 
it. You’ve got to tell me what’s wrong, and what’s made you 
dislike me.” 

“ I don’t dislike you,” answered Dolores impatiently, eager 
to be rid of him at any price. “ But I shall, if you don’t go 
now — this very minute — and leave me alone.” 

“Alone!” echoed Tillingbourne incredulously. “You 
wouldn’t be long alone if I left you. What do you think I’m 
made of — flesh and blood, or stone I tell you I love you. 
You’re driving me off my head. You’ve got to love me. 
You’ve got to be my wife. This time I won’t leave you till 
you’ve promised.” 

“ Oh — you’ll make me despise you ! ” she cried. 

“ I believe you’re playing with me,” he exclaimed furiously. 
“ Unless you’re in love with some other man, you’d love me. 
You don’t know what love is — that’s the trouble! You’re a 
child — a baby-child. I’m going to teach you how to love.” 

232 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 

« No — no! ” she protested. And as he would have snatched 
her in his arms she ran from him, hoping to reach the door of 
the bookroom and slam it in his face if he tried to follow. 
There was a bolt on the other side, and she could lock herself 
in. The music of “ Life is a Dream ” had only just begun. 
There was time to keep her promise still, in spite of Lord Till- 
in gbourne — in spite of everything. 

So she ran swiftly and lightly, but a Persian rug slid under 
her foot on the polished floor, just as she neared the great fire- 
place, and she would have slipped if Tillingbourne had not 
caught her, holding her tight against his breast. 

“ Let me go I ” she exclaimed sharply, but he held her the 
closer for her struggling. 

“ Now — now ! ” he stammered, his blood in his head and his 
heart pounding, as he pressed the slim, resisting figure to him. 
“ Now I shall kiss you till you faint, or tell me I’ve taught 
you how to love me. This is the only way with a cold child 
like you.” 

She cried out in shame and fear of him, as his head bent 
over hers, but before his lips could touch her face a strange 
thing had happened. Steel glimmering darkly blue in the 
moonlight, one of the tall armored figures by the fireplace 
stepped out of its place, and a mailed hand fastened on 
Tillingbourne’s shoulder a grip literally of iron. 

“ Coward ! Let her go I ” a voice spoke, issuing through the 
closed visor. 

So fierce was the grasp that it bruised the muscles under 
the velvet coat. With an oath, Tillingbourne threw back his 
head, and started at sight of the figure in armor. 

“ By the lord. I’ll make you pay for this — whoever you 
are ! ” he threatened. 

^33 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


As he mechanically released her, Dolores sprang away 
from him, her chiffons crumpled, crystal beads tinkling. 
Then, her high heels tangled among trailing lace and fringes, 
she swayed in danger of falling until she had caught at the 
back of a tall chair. Thus supported she stood, amazed and 
fascinated, watching the velvet cavaher and the figure in 
armor. 

The man in steel was her Sir Launcelot, who had been 
moved here from the hall, and who had come to life in the 
magic of the moon, just as she had often dreamed, between 
sleep and waking, that he and his enchanted companions 
might do. 

“ Very well, make me pay,” he spoke to Tillingbourne 
again from behind the visor. 

His voice sounded hollow, curiously unreal behind that bar- 
rier of steel, but Dolores’s heart leaped, and she bit her lip, 
pressing both hands over her mouth to keep from crying out 
in her surprise and joy. 

“ King Arthur’s ” armor clad her ghost of the lost court. 
For her sake he had come ^out of his hidden house. For her 
sake he was here, and it was he who had saved her the shame 
of Lord Tillingbourne’s enforced kisses. 

At first, her emotion was all joy. Then it changed sud- 
denly to fear. For if coming into the world did not mean for 
him the deadliest peril, surely he would not be wasting his 
best years as a prisoner in the lost court. All the blood in her 
body seemed to rush back upon her heart, in dread of discov- 
ery for him ; but for his sake she dared not speak or move. 

‘‘ Make me pay,” the voice said defiantly ; and the man in 
armor stood motionless with folded arms, as if waiting for 
what Lord Tillingbourne might choose to do. 

234 ! 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 


There was something very strange and ghostlike about the 
figure, clothed in steel, as the moonlight that streamed 
through the great stained-glass window fell upon it. 

Lord Tillingbourne was tall, but the armored form loomed 
taller, and chains and scales of steel glinted cold and spectral. 

Tillingbourne’s blood was cooling now. He saw that the 
figure had stepped down from a low block, covered with dark 
velvet, and that its mate still rested in the attitude it had re- 
tained for years on the other side of the wide fireplace. 

When the young man had been a boy of twelve, he had come 
with his father to Queen’s Quadrangles, and with one now 
dead and dishonored had entered this room. He remembered 
well that on each side of the fireplace had stood an armored 
figure ; and when after a lapse of many years. Lady Desmond 
had made him acquainted with the house again, only a few 
weeks ago, he had noticed that the armor was still in its old 
place. 

A curious, superstitious thrill went through him, as he 
faced the man clad in steel that glittered eerily in the moon- 
light. There was something terrible to him in the immobility 
of the figure with its folded arms ; and the hollow tones of the 
voice behind the visor gave him a shiver of awe. 

Tillingbourne’s blood was hot, and he was of sullen temper, 
quick to take offense, slow to forget ; nor was he a coward in 
ordinary circumstances. When no more than a boy he had 
gone straight from Sandhurst to South Africa, and had 
fought well. But as a small child he had had a Scotch nurse, 
a grim and fearsome woman who put him to bed at night and 
dared him to cry, with threats of ghosts, of men with severed 
throats, and headless hounds. Never had he been able to live 
down the influence that grim woman had exerted upon his 

235 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


childhood. Throughout his life he had been superstitious, and 
had hated talk of ghosts. 

Queen’s Quadrangles was of all houses a haunt for ghosts. 
There was the story of the lost court, with its many mysteries ; 
the beautiful lady who had lived there for love, and died for 
jealousy; of her murder; of her screams to be heard still at 
midnight at certain times of the year. There was a tale that 
the place had a new ghost among the old ones, since the trag- 
edy which had turned it to a house of mourning; and as he 
heard that strangely echoing challenge, “ Make me pay,” 
many legends of horror rushed to Tillingbourne’s mind, while 
for an instant a red pageant passed before his eyes. 

But he recovered his courage after a second or two, telling 
himself angrily that he was a fool, and that Dolores would 
despise him for a coward. 

Everyone was in fantastic costume to-night. This man, 
whoever he was, had played a trick upon him — dressing up in 
the suit of armor and standing upon the velvet platform 
sacred to the old family heirloom. Perhaps — and this thought 
sent a wave of flame through Tillingboume’s cooling blood — 
the man had been waiting for Dolores, and it was to meet him 
that she had come stealing into the great library. 

‘‘ I’m d — d if I donH make you pay ! ” he retorted furi- 
ously, and sprang forward to the spot whence the mailed hand 
had flung him back ; “ whoever you may be ! ” 

“ Whoever I may be,” the figure in armor echoed, and 
raised the visor. 

The moonlight, shining through the pale blue cloak of a 
knight painted on glass, touched the face suddenly revealed, 
making it like the face of the dead. 

That same face, alive and young, Tillingboume had seen 

236 


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO 


in this room as a boy. Now, its flesh had moldered to dust in 
the grave, long, long years ago. He knew that. There could 
be no question of it. He had a friend who said that he had seen 
the face in its coflin. Yet — through eyes dark as the fate 
which had destroyed a soul, that same face was looking at him 
from the suit of armor. 

“ Dolores ! ” he stammered. But Dolores was gone ; and 
hesitating no longer Lord Tillingboume rushed out of the 
haunted room he hardly knew how. 


23T 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 


THE INVISIBLE PARTNER 

W HEN she guessed who had come to the rescue, Do- 
lores fled to the bookroom and waited there, 
trembling in the doorway, where she could see what 
went on without being seen. 

The back of the figure in armor was turned toward her, but 
she knew when the visor was lifted, and seeing the effect of the 
revelation upon Lord Tillingbourne she let herself sink down on 
one of the cushioned seats which ran part way around the wall. 

She knew that her invisible partner would come to her there, 
and he did come, immediately after the loud,' hurried slam of 
the door which told her that Lord TillingbCume had gone. 

Two candles only, in silver candlesticks on an old Jacobean 
chest of drawers, redeemed the little bookroom fpom darkness, 
and each seemed to give no more than a thimbleful of light. 
But it was enough for a glimmering white Undine and a dark 
man in armor to look into each other’s eyes. 

She held out her little hands, and then laughed up at him 
when he took them both in the cold clasp of the mailed gloves 
which she had given him no time to throw aside. 

“ Oh, hpw can I laugh ! ” she faltered, shrinking into 
frightened gravity. “ I’m sure you are in great danger. You 
did this for me, and I thank you — thank you again and again. 
But I know you’re running some dreadful risjt that I don’t 
understand.” 


238 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 


“ No,” and he smiled at her, his face very handsome and 
clearcut in its frame of steel. “ My ghosthood saves me from 
danger. If you ever doubted before, you know now that I am 
a ghost.” 

“ The ghost of Launcelot, then,” the girl said gently. “ I 
call this suit of armor Launcelot’s.” 

“ So you told me once — one night when I asked you to de- 
scribe the house as you saw it.” 

“ And you remembered? ” 

“ Yes, I remember most things you say to me. It was that 
put the idea of what Pm doing now into my head.” 

‘‘ I wonder if I’m sorry or glad 1 ” the girl reflected aloud. 

“ I should like you to say you’re glad, because I’ve looked 
forward to this ever since I saw you last, as. a great night — a 
brave night.” 

“ Then I am glad — ^Launcelot,” said Dolores. 

“ It’s good to be called that ; to feel that you think — ^kindly 
of me, or you wouldn’t choose such a noble name.” 

“ I used to think you looked like Sir Launcelot of the Lake 
when I first saw you in the moonlight on the water,” the girl 
volunteered. “ So I named the armor after — that idea of you, 
and began reading the Idylls all over again.” 

“ You are almost the only one who ever thinks of me except 
with horror — if any think of me at all in these days,” said 
the ghost in armor. 

Dolores shivered a little, remembering the horrible things 
that Lady Desmond had said — things which she had tried to 
put out of her mind from that moment as unthinkable, as well 
as unbelievable. But she did not speak. She only looked at 
him, with how much of her heart in her eyes she did not 
know. 


239 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

“ Didn’t you guess that I would come to you for this 
dance ? ” he asked. 

Dolores shook her head. “ I never dreamed of it — except 
that you’d come in thought. I was sure you would do that, 
and I was on my way here, because it seemed the best place, 
when — when — you know what happened.” 

• “ Brute ! I forgot myself for a moment, came near knock- 

ing him down. If I had, with the mailed fist, I might have 
killed him, and then ” 

“ Oh, how thankful I am that you didn’t ! It would have 
killed me, too — or it would have been worse, if I couldn’t have 
died.” 

“ I was afraid of myself first for a second or two. Then — 
the past came up — ” His lips tightened, and he turned away 
from her, but her first words called him back. 

“ This is our waltz, you know,” she said quickly, to change 
the current of his thought. “ Can you hear the music ” 

“ Yes, faintly. Will you dance with me? ” 

Surprised, but delighted, she sprang up, and he laid his 
steel-clad arm round her waist. She remembered that he had 
never voluntarily touched her before. Her thoughts swam in 
a sea of dreams, as the far-away music fioated to her ears, and 
she dared not look up at him, though she felt that his eyes 
were on her. Then suddenly the music ceased. The waltz was 
ended. 

“ I couldn’t have danced after all, I’m afraid, in this steel 
box,” he said, his voice sounding strained and different. She 
dared to glance up, and saw that his face was flushed ; but as 
she looked the blood ebbed away and left it pale. 

“ Oughtn’t you to go now ? ” she asked. 

‘‘ Not quite yet,” he answered. “ Most ghosts have one 

^40 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 


night of freedom a year. This is the only one I’ve known for 
many. Don’t grudge me a few minutes. But I forgot. What 
a selfish wretch I am ! You’re engaged for this next dance, of 
course, and ” 

“ You must know that the next dance and all the other 
dances are nothing to me ! ” Dolores exclaimed, almost an- 
grily. “ It’s of you I’m thinking — your danger, if ” 

“ Please forget that,” he broke in. “ Don’t you want to 
know how I managed this? ” 

“ Yes,” she said, falling into his mood. 

“ You’d told me it was to be a fancy dress ball, or I couldn’t 
have done it,” he went on. “I won’t tell you how I got the 
armor. I’ll leave that to your imagination. Perhaps I hypno- 
tized one of your servants to remove it from its old platform 
in the hall, while everybody was at dinner this evening, and 
to substitute something else for it. Ghosts have an hypnotic 
influence over human minds sometimes, I’ve heard. Anyhow 
I did get it; and put it on, in my own place. Then every- 
thing was simple enough. I merely walked out from under 
the terrace and stalked across the lawns, where if anyone had 
seen me they would have thought I was a guest coming on 
foot to the ball — or else an apparition : it didn’t matter which. 
For a long time I stood outside one of the windows of the 
ballroom, on the south terrace, watching. I saw you dance 
with your friend Captain de Grey three times, and Lord Till- 
ingbourne once ” 

“ How did you recognize them ? ” the girl asked breath- 
lessly, before she had stopped to think, and to remember that 
she had forbidden herself all questions, however innocent they 
might seem. 

His face changed slightly, but before he could answer, if 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


he had wished to answer, she cried: “ Oh, I didn’t mean to 
ask you that. I don’t want you to tell me.” 

“ How loyal and kind you are,” he said. “ I should think 
there never has been and never will be again a girl like — my 
little friend.” 

Dolores blushed with pleasure at his praise, though a chill 
was in his last words, gentle though they were. 

“ What did you do next ? ” she questioned. 

“ When it grew later, and I thought that the time for our 
dance would soon come, I walked round the house and marched 
in at the front door. Two footmen were there, talking to- 
gether, but they let me pass, hardly noticing me, thinking, of 
course, that I was a guest ; and I went by in a quiet, business- 
like way that gave them confidence. Afterwards I stood by 
the main entrance to the great hall for a while ; and if anyone 
saw me, they probably took me for an empty suit of armor 
among the others there. I waited till you came out of the 
ballroom with a pink young man, who looked like a chromo- 
lithograph of Henry VIII. I watched you for a few min- 
utes, seeing your look of surprise when you first discovered 
that the suit of English armor by the door had been replaced 
by a Japanese understudy. Then, while you were hiding 
from Lord Tillingbourne, I came round by way of the long 
gallery and the corridor into the library, and I hadn’t more 
than stowed a suit of armor in the fireplace, and stepped on 
its platform, when you appeared. I didn’t mean to frighten 
you ; but it occurred to me that you might be followed. And 
my idea was that when you were in the bookroom I would 
walk in and surprise you.” 

‘‘You thought I would come here for — our dance the 
girl asked. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 


“ I was almost sure you would.” 

“ Did you will me to come.? ” 

He smiled. “ I tried to.” 

“ I think I felt it. Oh, I’m so happy to-night.” 

“ So am I,” said the ghost, though his eyes were sad. 
“ Much happier than I have been since — I went out of the 
world. Far happier than I shall be again — till I leave even 
my small dark corner of it forever.” 

“ Why mayn’t there come other happy nights like this.? ” 
Dolores almost whispered. 

“Because this is too happy. Do you understand.? No! I 
don’t want you to understand. You mustn’t understand!” 

“ Indeed, I don’t,” she said wistfully. 

“ I’m glad — Well, I shall have this — and other things — 
to remember. And now, little friend — dear, loyal, little friend 
who has turned my death-in-life into life-in-death — good-by. 
The ghost must be flitting.” 

“ Oh, stay a few minutes longer,” she pleaded. “ Every- 
body’s at supper now, and I don’t want supper. I couldn’t 
eat. Stay a little while.” 

“ Don’t tempt me,” he said. 

“ J ust till time for the cotillon to begin. I’ll go then, 
because it would be rude for me to stop away.” 

“ I can’t,” he answered. “ I dare not stop.” 

“ But why.? You can open the big window and go out onto 
the south terrace. Then you’ll be quite near the lake, and 
there’ll be no danger. That’s all past now — the risk you took 
is over.” 

“ There is another danger,” he said. “ I want you to bid 
me good-by, you Undine-with-a-soul. Good-by now, this 
moment.” 


243 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ I will then, if I must,” she sighed. “ And — ” she fought 
with her pride; but it was not a hard fight, because he had 
shown that he cared enough to come to her. “ And I’ll tap 
on the wall here to-morrow at the usual time.” 

“ No,” he said. “ When I bid you good-by to-night, it must 
be good-by — for always. I felt that when I came. I’m sure 
of it now. You mustn’t come to me again.” 

Dolores shrank back as if he had struck her. “ Never 
again! You don’t want to see me — ever again.? ” 

He turned away with something that sounded like a groan. 
“ Gpd ! ” she heard him mutter. “ How can I go through with 
it.?” 

The voice, sharpened by pain, frightened her. “ Oh, what 
is it — what is the matter.? ” she implored, her hand on his 
arm. 

“ Nothing,” he answered. “ Only — I’m not as strong as I 
thought I was, and — this has got to be the end. I meant it 
to be the end, and it shall. Good-by, precious ray of sunshine, 
good-by — and I thank you for everything, with all my heart, 
with all my soul.” 

He took her hand that lay on his arm and kissed it once, 
twice, on wrist and palm. Then, putting it away from him, 
without another word and without looking back he left her 
standing there half dazed. She saw his tall figure move 
through the path of moonlight strewn with flowers of color. 
She saw him open the window and spring out. Then every- 
thing seemed over, and throwing herself down on the cushioned 
seat, she cried bitterly in the crumpled folds of Undine’s 
crystal-beaded veil. 


244 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 


A CONFESSION 

L ord TIIXINGBOURNE had the supper dance with 
i Nina Desmond, but he did not seek her out until it 
was time for their waltz to begin. 

“ I thought you’d forgotten me,” she said crossly ; for De 
Grey had been disappointing, and at the moment there was 
no one but Tillingbourne, whom she had known since boyhood, 
upon whom she could conveniently vent her ill humor. 

“ I’ve been looking for you,” he answered, speaking rather 
thickly. 

She looked sharply up at him. “ Tillingbourne, you’ve been 
drinking more than is good for you,” she said in a low, angry 
voice. “ A charming way to recommend yourself to a prim 
little puritan of an American girl ! ” 

“ I can’t help it,” he grumbled in return. “ Something’s 
happened which would have driven a saint to drink.” 

“ We’ll sit this dance out,” Nina said shortly. “ What’s 
up.?^ Has she refused you again ” 

“ More or less ; but it isn’t that which upset me this time,” 
he answered, his turquoise blue eyes less boldly bright than 
usual. “ I’ve made a d — d ass of myself, that’s all. But if it 
were to come over again, I’m hanged if I don’t believe I’d do 
the same thing.” 

“ Sit down and tell me exactly what has happened,” Lady 
Desmond commanded. 


245 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


He obeyed, but sat silent for a minute or two, staring in 
front of him. They had come to sit in the fountain court, and 
his eyes gloomily followed the rising and falling spray, red 
as tossed rubies in the rose-colored light. 

“ I’ve seen a ghost,” he said at last. 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Nina. “But you’re joking.” 

“ Do I look much like joking.? ” he asked. 

“ No, you don’t. Do you mean you’ve met some one disa- 
greeably connected with any episode of your past.? Some one 
whom Dolores Eliot wouldn’t ” 

“ Dolores Eliot saw him, too. It was the ghost of — a mur- 
derer. You know who.^^ 

Tillingbourne, completely preoccupied with his own emo- 
tions, had little concern to spare for hers, but the start she 
gave and her dead silence afterwards did attract his atten- 
tion. He turned his eyes slowly to her, and saw how she was 
sitting with her hand pressed to her throat. Then he remem- 
bered things which might make such an announcement thrown 
at her in such a way particularly painful to Nina Desmond. 

“ You would have me tell you,” he said sulkily. 

She got her voice again. “ Some one was fooling you,” she 
faltered. “ I don’t believe in ghosts.” 

“ Neither do I, when I’m where there are plenty of lights 
and plenty of people,” said Tillingbourne. “ That is, I didn’t 
believe them yesterday ; but I did a few minutes ago in that 
gloomy old library, where it was dark except for a candle or 
two, and a ghastly flood of moonlight.” 

“ Oh — it was in the library that you thought you saw 
something ! ” 

“ Did see something. A knight in armor, who spoke to me 
from behind his visor in a hollow-sounding voice, and then 

246 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR 


showed me his face, blue white in the moonlight, with eyes like 
the last coals in a dying fire. He looked as if he’d just been 
executed.” 

“Ah, God! Don’t talk to me of that! You’re too horri- 
ble,” Lady Desmond stammered. 

“ I forgot. I beg your pardon,” said Tillingbourne, sud- 
denly somewhat sobered by the sick horror in her voice. “ But 
it was his face — ^just as I saw it for the last time in that same 
room, years ago when I was a kid, except that now it was — a 
ghost’s face. When it looked at me, I seemed turning to jelly. 
I was every sort of an ass that you can think me. I looked 
round for Dolores, and when I found that she’d run away, 
I — well, I didn’t exactly stand on the order of my going.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Lady Desmond. “ So Dolores was there. You 
didn’t tell me that.” 

“Didn’t* I. I forgot. She went into the library, and as 
she’d refused to dance the next dance with me, because she was 
engaged for it, I wanted to know whom she was going to 
meet there in the moonlight.” 

Nina Desmond’s face was very pale, with not the faintest 
tint of color under the delicate white film of cosmetic which 
gave her complexion its pearly transparency. But the look 
of blank horror in her gray-green eyes was changing slowly 
into vivid feverish curiosity. 

“ Do you think Dolores was going into the library to meet 
some one.? ” she asked. 

“ I’m sure she was. But I — and the ghost — frightened her 
away. She vanished as if she were a ghost herself.” 

“ Tell me the whole thing, precisely as it was, frojg^ begin- 
ning to end,” said Nina. 

Tillingbourne told, softening the narrative where it con- 

247 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


cerned his own actions, and neglecting to mention that the 
ghostly grip on his shoulder had been strong enough to leave 
bruises. 

“ The ghost made you let Dolores go when you were just 
in the act of kissing her.^ ” echoed Nina. 

“ I would have been in the act in another second. Of course 
he couldn’t have made me let her go — I’m not quite weak- 
ling or coward enough for that ; but seeing him raise his visor 
and show that face — ^just as I was thinking him one of the 
guests — was a bit overpowering for a minute. I can’t describe 
the effect it had on me. And — as Dolores vanished instantly, 
there w’as no particular object in staying. By Jove, I was as 
cold as if I’d been dipped in ice water, and I was glad enough 
of a whisky neat, I can tell you.” 

“ Several whiskies neat, I should think,” retorted Nina ; but 
her eyes looked as if she saw something far away. As a mat- 
ter of fact, she was seeing, almost as plainly as if it were 
before her, the face of the miniature which Dolores Eliot had 
worn hidden inside her dress. 

“ The sickening part was, the library used to be his favorite 
room,” went on Tillingbourne. “ I remembered hearing that, 
just as those awful eyes of his were burning through my fore- 
head into my brain. It wasn’t one of the pleasantest reflec- 
tions I ever had.” 

“ Come. Take me in to supper,” said Nina, springing up. 
“ We shall both feel better afterwards.” 


248 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 


THE END OF THE CORRIDOR 

D olores had promised to go to supper with St. John 
de Grey, and he looked for her vainly in every im- 
aginable place; but at last she appeared just in time 
for the cotillon, her filmy veil like a light mist across her face. 

She had been tired of dancing, she said, and the lights had 
made her head ache, so she had gone away to rest. But she 
was better now, and ready for the cotillon. No, she would 
have nothing to eat; but Captain de Grey might bring her 
a cup of hot bouillon if he liked. He did like, and waited upon 
her so faithfully that she was grateful. If she had wished, he 
would have excused her from dancing the cotillon for which 
he was to be her partner, but she would not hear of giving 
it up. “ Mother would be worried,” she said simply. “ Be- 
sides, I’m quite all right again now — as right as I shall ever 
be.” 

For St. J ohn there was no hidden meaning in that last sen- 
tence, for she spoke it smiling. 

Once in a fantastic figure of the dance, when all the women 
were grouped together. Lady Desmond, who by her hostess’s 
request led the cotillon with Lord Tillingbourne, whispered to 
Dolores : “ I want to see you as soon as it’s all over. There’s 
something I must say.” 

After the cotillon, which was to finish the ball, somebody 
asked for an extra waltz. Neither Dolores nor Lady Desmond 

^49 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


danced it, and several men who had wished to be their part- 
ners noticed that they disappeared together. They went out 
through a long, modernized window in the larger drawing- 
room, and walked on the west terrace, their blood beating so 
fast that neither would have known it was cold had the tem- 
perature been as autumnal as the month. 

“ Dolores, I’m almost old enough to be your mother,” began 
Nina. (She was quite old enough, as it happened; but that 
was a detail. ) “ You persuaded me to say nothing to Mrs. 
Eliot about the miniature you were wearing, because you said 
it was one you had found here in the house — that you knew 
nothing of the original. But now I begin to think I made a 
mistake in giving you any promise. Who is this man you are 
meeting secretly? ” 

Overwhelmed, the girl could not have answered if she would, 
and Nina ’Desmond took advantage of her stricken silence. 
“ I’ve reason to believe that something underhand, indeed 
something terrible, is going on in this house, unknown to 
your mother and to everyone, except yourself and — one 
other,” she continued. “ Dolores — Dolores — you’re laying 
up misery and despair for yourself! You must — you shall 
tell me what is happening — who the man is.” 

“ I’ll tell you nothing. Lady Desmond,” the girl faltered. 
“ Because — there is nothing to tell.” 

“ Then there’s something that will have to be found out,” 
cried Nina. “ Believe me, I speak as your friend. If there’s 
a mystery here, you must not be mixed up in it. Once again 
I ask : Who is the man ? ” 

“ Please let me go back to the house,” said Dolores. “ I was 
very hot after dancing. Now I am cold.” 

“ First listen to me,” Lady Desmond commanded. “ I shall 

^50 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 


come here again at twelve o’clock to-morrow, and I shall look 
for you in the summerhouse on the south terrace. If you 
don’t meet me there and tell me what dreadful influence is at 
work upon you in this house, I will ask for your mother, and 
tell her a thing that I begin to more than suspect. Others 
may have to know too. This is for your good. And now you 
understand exactly what is in my mind.” 

“ I don’t understand ! ” the girl flung at her desperately. 

“ What about the ghost in armor, in the library.? ” Lady 
Desmond asked, in a slow, meaning tone. And then, giving 
the girl no time to answer, turned on her heel to walk briskly 
away. 

Fifteen minutes later she and every other guest — except 
the half dozen Americans who were staying in the house — ^had 
taken leave of Frances Eliot and Dolores. 

A great fear had fallen upon the girl, not for herself, but 
for another. She believed that Nina Desmond had found out a 
great deal more than she really guessed at. Knowing nothing 
of Lady Desmond’s past in connection with the ghost of the 
lost court, Dolores was nevertheless sure that they had been 
connected in some tragic way which made the woman still dan- 
gerous to the man. 

To-morrow, some terrible thing might happen. 

Lady Desmond had said with deadly intention : “ Perhaps 
others may have to know too.” And it seemed to the girl that 
there was a wicked menace in those words. 

The story that there was a “ lost court ” at Queen’s Quad- 
rangles was common property. She and Frances had heard 
the rumor of it before taking the place. And though the say- 
ing was that the court had been partially destroyed in a 
storm and completely swept away in alterations made long 

251 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

ago, still, if Lady Desmond told what she seemed to guess, 
suspicion might be aroused that the strange hiding place still 
existed and was in use. 

Whether Nina knew of the hiding place or not, Dolores 
could not be sure, but certainly some one in the house must 
be aware of it, or the prisoner of the lost court could not be 
so well cared for and tended. Old Soames might know, the 
girl told herself, and conceal his knowledge even from his mis- 
tress. He had a queer old face, like a mask, now that she 
called up features and expression. He would be capable of 
hiding behind that mask a great secret, and of keeping it for 
years. Dolores could not imagine that by the flicker of an 
eyelid he would ever betray knowledge of anything which he 
wished not to betray. 

Suppose there were matters of interest to the police in the 
secret of this old house.? If Lady Desmond had really hit upon 
the truth, and should speak out what she had hinted to Do- 
lores, who could tell what dreadful trouble might follow? 
Well and cleverly as the lost court was concealed, no doubt an 
architect, sent to make examination, might at once detect dis- 
crepancies which would prove the existence and even the posi- 
tion of what had remained hidden for so many years. 

It seemed to the girl that it was wholly through her fault 
that this danger threatened the prisoner. He had left his safe 
hiding place to see her. To protect her, he had shown himself 
to Lord Tillingbourne ; and in jealousy and anger Lord Till- 
ingboume must have gone straight to Lady Desmond, whose 
suspicions had been already roused by the imprudently worn 
miniature. 

“ If harm comes to him it will be all through me,” Dolores 
said to herself. “ Somehow, I must let him know what is hap- 

252 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 


pening. Perhaps if he knew, he would go away before people 
could begin spying and watching.” 

But how to reach him with the bad news she had to tell — 
that was the problem. 

He had bidden her good-by, and said — for some reason she 
could not understand — that they must not meet again. Then 
he had gone, leaving her no time to argue or plead, even if 
she would. Half stunned, she had had to submit to his deci- 
sion ; and even when she had returned to the ballroom to keep 
her engagement with De Gray, always the words had echoed 
in her ears: “Never to see him again. Never to see him 
again.” 

But now everything was changed. Somehow she must con- 
trive to warn him that through her fault he was in danger, 
and to beg that he would leave Queen’s Quadrangles before it 
should be too late. 

There was not much time, for Lady Desmond had said that 
she would come next day at twelve, and no matter what Do- 
lores might try to do or say to quiet her suspicions and turn 
them in another way if they had already been aroused and 
were on the right track, there was very little hope of success. 

Lady Desmond had stared at the locket as if she hated the 
face that looked back at her from the ivory, and she had said 
terrible things. She would have said more if Dolores had con- 
sented to listen. No mercy could be expected from Nina, the 
girl thought, if she had any object of her owm to gain by be- 
traying one whom she seemed to regard as an enemy to be 
feared and hated. Therefore if anything were to be accom- 
plished it should be done before to-morrow morning. 

By four o’clock the old house — a little while earlier bright 
with lights and gay with music — had returned to that dark- 

253 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

ness and silence which had bound it as in a spell for many a 
year. 

Mistress, guests, and tired servants slept, as Dolores stole 
down from the room where her mother had wished her “ sweet 
dreams,” and crept back into the great dark library. 

The moon had traveled far on her journey toward the 
west, and no jeweled rays streamed through the stained-glass 
window, nor was there yet any light of dawn. The big square 
of the many-colored window glimmered faintly in the dark- 
ness, that was all; but Dolores carried a candle, whose flame 
streamed in a smoky pennon as she moved toward the door of 
the bookroom. 

Her one hope was that the prisoner of the lost court might 
hear her if she tapped on the wall. Where he slept she did not 
know, for she had never seen the upper story of the little 
house built round two sides of the lost court ; and if his sleep- 
ing room were on the east side, he would not hear knocking 
on the wall of the bookroom. Even if he had not gone to bed, 
and should be sitting in the room of the Spanish pictures, he 
could not hear. It was only when in his room of books, which 
backed against this other bookroom, that he was able to give 
or receive signals. Still, she could but try. 

Softly she shut the door between the bookroom and the 
library beyond. Then, pulling out half a dozen books, as 
usual, she tapped sharply on the oak behind the shelf. 

No answer came. There was no sound on the other side. 
Again she knocked more loudly; and again there was no 
reply but silence. She waited, and knocked a third time, with 
the same result; and then, desperate at her failure, beat with 
her little fist against the wainscoting. 

Silence — always silence! 




CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 


What was she to do? 

The deadly stillness of the sleeping house, only emphasized 
by the strange crackings and creakings which come inexplica- 
bly in old, old rooms at night, intensified her fears for the 
man whose hidden life was passed on the other side of the 
wall. It seemed, at this hour when the tired world slept and 
vital forces were at ebb, as if any horror were possible. Be- 
fore the eyes of Dolores’s mind rose the face of Nina Des- 
mond, no longer beautiful, no longer fascinating by virtue 
of its famous smile, but malignant, merciless as a mask of 
Nemesis. 

Dolores was afraid of everything, of every mysterious 
creak and whisper and rustle which made up the night silence ; 
but most of all, of Lady Desmond, whose presence seemed near 
her, like an evil thing hiding in the shadow. 

When she had knocked a dozen times in vain, the girl re- 
membered one other way that she might take. 

There was the secret door at the end of the long corridor, 
through which she usually returned after a visit to the lost 
court. She would not dare to knock on account of Lady Rosa- 
mund, even if a knock could be heard so far off as at the end 
of the passage ; but there must be some means of opening the 
door from this side: a hidden spring; a tiny knob to push; 
something which would send the door sliding back, as she had 
often seen it slide while waiting to pass out. 

She had never been allowed to go in by that way, for at the 
hour when she went to pay her visits there was always some 
danger that Lady Rosamund might be up and about in one 
of the rooms close at hand. But now it was much later than 
the latest hour at which she had ever returned, and there could 
be no fear that Lady Rosamund was still out of bed. 

255 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


Frances had timidly asked her housekeeper if she would not 
like to see the fountain court after it was illuminated, or per- 
haps peep at the guests in their fancy dress, from a little 
window made for such purposes, behind the musicians’ gallery 
in the ballroom. But Lady Rosamund, thanking her quietly, 
had answered that she was rather tired, and would go to bed 
early. When Frances had hoped that she might not be dis- 
turbed by the music, she had said that she would scarcely hear 
it so far away, and even if she did, she would sleep the more 
soundly in the hours after the guests had gone. 

“ She ought to be fast asleep now,” thought Dolores. “ Be- 
sides, I shan’t make any noise.” 

Carrying her candle, the girl tiptoed softly through the 
long corridor that led from the library into the long gallery. 
Parker had been told not to wait up after the ball, and 
Dolores was still in her Undine dress; but the crystal beads 
and fringes made so light a tinkling as she moved that even 
a listening ear could not have heard from behind closed doors. 

Standing at last before the paneled wall at the end of the 
gallery where she knew that the secret door existed, with 
raised candle the girl patiently searched for the hidden spring 
which must be there. Her finger pressed and pried into each 
small inequality of the oak, testing even a worm hole which 
was larger than its fellows. 

The paneling was fashioned in squares, and as Dolores 
already knew from many interested glances cautiously thrown 
in passing, it was Impossible for an uninitiated eye to detect 
the secret door. Now, even though she knew exactly where it 
was, she could not trace its lines; but at last her searching 
finger found what seemed to be a nail head. She pushed, and 
felt it yield under her touch. 

256 


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE 

Then came the familiar click which she had often heard on 
the other side of the door, and the panel slid back. 

When manipulated bj the ghost, who knew its ways so well, 
its sliding was gentle, almost inaudible. But Dolores must 
have left something undone which ought to have been done, 
for instead of moving with smooth slowness, the panel flashed 
back into the wall with the sharp clap of a slammed wooden 
blind. 

Dolores felt as if her blood were turning to water in her 
sick fear of the harm that might be done ; but she could only 
go on ; and, the candle dripping wax in her trembling grasp, 
she was in the act of slipping through the narrow space when 
a key turned sharply, and Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot stood 
framed in the doorway of her own bedroom. 

For an instant the girl and the woman looked at each other, 
terror in Dolores’s eyes, anger beyond matching with words 
in Lady Rosamund’s. Then the tall figure, with falling hair 
white as the night dress it cloaked, sprang forward, swift as. 
the lightning of a look, and caught the girl back from the 
open panel. 

“ How dare you.? ” Lady Rosamund demanded in a whis- 
per more piercing than a cry. “ Treacherous — wicked girl ! 
And I liked you. I thought you sweet and true.” 

“ I am not treacherous,” Dolores panted. “ I only ” 

“ Don’t defend yourself,” the pale woman cut her short. 
‘‘ You must have bad blood in your veins, or you would not 
turn spy to satisfy a vulgar, cruel curiosity. You can’t be 
one of our Eliots. You and your mother must leave this house 
to-morrow. Go to your room now. But — one moment first. 
Some one has told you that there was a secret door here, and 
perhaps gossiped of what might be behind it. There is noth- 

^57 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


mg behind it to gratify your curiosity — nothing. But if, 
while you remain in this house, or after you have gone away, 
you talk of what you may have heard and the little you have 
seen, I will have you dealt with by the law for a scandal- 
monger. That is all. You can go.” 

Sick, and deathly white, Dolores staggered from under the 
hand upon her shoulder, which threw her off as if she were 
some noxious thing ; and half fainting she tottered away with- 
out a word. 

To save her life, she could not have spoken again in self- 
defense. She felt as if she were dying, and she wished to die. 


258 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 


EARLY IN THE MORNING 

A FTERWARDS, when she found herself once more in 
/-% her own room, scarcely remembering how she had got 
there, the girl wondered at herself for not having in- 
sisted on justice from Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot. 

She realized then how weak she had been, to let herself be 
broken like a snapped reed by the woman’s ruthless grasp. 
She ought to have stood firm, to have protested, even when 
Lady Rosamund forbade her to speak. She should not have 
endured such insults in a silence which consented to them all, 
but ought to have explained something of her motive in com- 
ing to the secret door. 

Yet, ought she to have explained.?’ she wondered, on top of 
self-reproaches. 

Suppose that it should bring trouble upon the prisoner of 
the lost court, if Lady Rosamund knew that he had received 
and encouraged visits from a stranger.?’ Evidently, whatever 
her relations with the hidden man, she had never yet been told 
of those visits, and he must have had good reasons for con- 
cealment. On second thoughts, therefore, while tingling with 
shame because she had stood tongue-tied, powerless for self- 
justification, Dolores was glad that she had entered into 
no explanations. And though she longed that Lady Rosa- 
mund should know how utterly she had been misjudged, she 

£59 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

did not dare go back to insist again that she had done no 
wrong. 

It was daylight before she undressed ; and then she did not 
go to bed, for she knew that she could not sleep, and she did 
not wish to sleep. She felt that there were many things for 
her to do, if only she could be sure what was best, and what 
she ought to set about doing first. 

Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot had said that mother and 
daughter must leave the house. Probably Lady Rosamund 
would seek Mrs. Eliot in the morning without waiting for 
Dolores to tell her story ; but Frances and her guests planned 
to sleep till ten, and then breakfast in their rooms. Dolores 
thought that her mother would not be ready to come down 
before eleven, and she told herself that Lady Rosamund would 
not force herself upon her tenant before she was dressed. 

What might be said by the two women if they met Dolores 
could not guess, but she determined to see her mother before 
Lady Rosamund had a chance to speak. Think as she might, 
however, she could not make up her mind what would be wisest 
to say about their going from Queen’s Quadrangles. 

Sweet-natured and dovelike as Frances was, her daughter 
knew that the dove’s feathers would ruffle in defense of her 
young. The gentle lips would answer with angry word, im- 
prudent words perhaps, to any aspersion against her child; 
and Dolores feared to tell all the truth, lest the secret should 
inadvertently be let out, not only to Lady Rosamund, who 
probably knew, but to others who did not and must not know. 
Better that Frances should fancy her daughter foolishly 
changeable, or even guilty of some shameful indiscretion, than 
have the secret of the lost court bandied about. 

If only she herself knew what that secret really was, and 

260 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 


how serious for those concerned the consequences of its discov- 
ery might be! Dolores thought over and over again. If she 
knew that, then she would know just how much harm Lady 
Desmond could do, should she be cruel enough to talk of the 
ghost, and hint to outsiders that he had an existence in the 
flesh. 

It seemed impossible now to warn him of danger, but if she 
could learn at least what his connection was with Queen’s 
Quadrangles and Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot, she might per- 
haps go to Lady Rosamund herself and bid her give the 
necessary warning. 

The friend whom she would save asked nothing of her be- 
yond that she would be deaf to gossip ; and though she had 
had opportunities of satisfying curiosity, she had never taken 
them. But the girl felt now that if she could learn the pris- 
oner’s story from lips which would not malign him, she might 
be able to save him yet from the consequences of danger risked 
for her sake. Best of all would it have been to hear the tale 
as he could tell it ; but since that might not be, she must think 
of some one else to go to — some one kind of heart, some one 
without malice, who would not talk for sheer morbid love of 
horror. 

And she did think of some one else. 

It was very early in the morning, as she bathed and dressed, 
soon after sunrise, that the thought came to her of the little 
ladies of Turk’s Cottage. 

They knew the tragedy of Queen’s Quadrangles ; that trag- 
edy in which the hidden man of the lost court must have 
played some leading part. They did not gloat upon the 
thought of it with appetite, as did Mrs. Calendar and other 
women whom the girl had met. They had not ceased visiting 

261 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

at Queen’s Quadrangles because everybody else turned their 
backs upon the place, nor had they begun running there again 
because of the duke and other great ones, who set the fashion 
of knowing the new tenants. They had stopped away, Dolores 
thought, out of respect to Lady Rosamund, not because they 
shunned her ; and they had not come when others came, still 
out of respect to her. And Dolores liked them better for not 
calling than she liked more important people for calling 
often. 

She would go to the Misses Greenleaf, she decided, and beg 
them to tell her the secret of the dear old house from which 
she was to be sent away disgraced. 

Once she had made up her mind to this plan, the girl re- 
vived a little. 

She knew that the little ladies called themselves “ early 
birds,” and once or twice when she had been enterprising 
enough to take a walk before breakfast, she had seen them in 
their big mushroom hats working in their garden. 

Perhaps they might be surprised when she knocked at their 
door at an hour when most people were thinking of getting 
up, but in a minute she would explain that she had come on 
an errand of importance. She would say that it was neces- 
sary for her to hear the truth about Queen’s Quadrangles; 
that she could not fully explain why, but that if she knew 
all, she might be able to prevent great evil from being done. 
Then they would be surprised no longer, and they would be 
very kind she knew. 

She was out of the house by half past seven, and just as 
the far-away church clock at Clere struck eight she was lift- 
ing the old-fashioned knocker on the little, black front door 
of Turk’s Cottage. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 


The twin sisters were at breakfast in the low-ceilinged hall 
which was their sitting room, and as the stiffly starched Lau- 
retta opened the door, they both sprang up with exactly the 
chirp of surprise Dolores had anticipated. 

“ Why, my dear, you up and out at eight o’clock, after 
your ball ! ” exclaimed Miss Poppy. “ It’s quite like the girls 
of our time. Not many of that sort among the young people 
nowaday 

“ What a dear child to come and tell us about the dance,” 
said Miss Peachy. “We thought of you, and wished we could 
have seen you in the pretty dress you said you were getting 
made in London. I’m sure everything must have been a great 
success, and that you looked perfectly beautiful.” 

The sweet-faced old ladies with their pleasant chatter were 
almost too much for Dolores’s self-control. Something seemed 
to choke her, and tears burned her eyes, though she smiled 
thanks for her welcome. 

Instantly they saw that she had not come to talk of her suc- 
cesses at the ball. The two faces, which looked as if they had 
been carefully cut from the same pattern, became grave; but 
the sisters went on chatting as before, to keep up appearances 
while Lauretta was in the room. 

Had their dear child had her breakfast.^ Not yet.? Why 
then, Lauretta must bring in some hot coffee and fresh toast. 
Oh, this poor lamb mustn’t refuse. They would listen to noth- 
ing about last night until she had eaten and drunk. So she 
ceased to resist, and when to please her friends she had swal- 
lowed half a cup of coffee and crumbled a little toast, she 
found that they were right. She felt better able to go through 
with what might lie before her. 

Soon Lauretta was told that her mistresses could spare her 

263 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

for the rest of the meal, and that she might run to the post 
office with the letters instead of waiting until she had cleared 
the table and washed the dishes. 

“ Dearie, we can’t help seeing from your poor little pale 
face that something serious has happened,” began Miss 
Poppy, “ and it’s a great compliment to us that you should 
come here and let us try to advise you ; because I think that’s 
what you have come for, isn’t it? ” 

“ Yes,” said Dolores. “ I knew you’d help me.” 

“ Why, of course. We’re used to helping girls out of their 
troubles,” said Miss Poppy cheerfully. “ We were ‘ school- 
ma’ams ’ for years ; and our girls were never afraid even of 
me— while as for Peachy, they did what they liked with her. 
But I believe they loved us, which was what we wanted, and 
we loved them.” 

“ There wasn’t one as sweet and dear as you, child,” added 
Miss Peachy, “ so you can think how glad we are to have you 
come to us.” 

“ Has some young man been making love to you, and you’re 
not quite sure what you want to say to him? ” inquired Miss 
Poppy, seeing that the girl hesitated to begin, and anxious 
to encourage her. 

“ It isn’t like that,” Dolores answered. “ It’s real trouble 
— not just a tiny worry. The worst of it is that I can’t ex- 
plain everything even to you, who are both so kind, but — I’ve 
come to beg that you’ll tell me the thing that happened 
years ago to make Queen’s Quadrangles different from other 
places.” 

“ Dear me ! ” exclaimed Miss Peachy. Some gossiping 
creature has been talking to you. We were always afraid of 
that. No nice person would have mentioned the subject to 

264 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX 


you or your mother; and, indeed, it’s never been considered 
quite good taste to talk of it even among ourselves.” 

“ Good taste doesn’t matter now,” said the girl wearily. 
“ It’s gone beyond that. I’ve known for a long time that there 
was something dreadful — something tragic, but I didn’t want 
to hear what it was, any more than — than the nice people 
wanted to tell me. But now I must know, and I’ve come to beg 
you for all the truth. It’s only in that way you can help me.” 


% 


265 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


THE STORY AS THEY TOED IT 

M ISS POPPY and Miss Peachy glanced at each other 
with perturbed blue eyes, over Dolores’s bowed head, 
but after a moment’s silence Miss Poppy spoke, 
gently and gravely. 

“ Very well, dear,” she said. “ I know you wouldn’t come 
to us with such a request unless you had a good reason. You 
shall hear the story. It’s a very sad one, and — ^you were right 
about its being tragic.” 

“ Oh, what a pity, what a pity, she must be told such bad 
and horrible things ! ” wailed Miss Peachy. 

“ Never mind, dear ; we must make it as little horrible for 
her to hear as we can, without hiding anything,” said Miss 
Poppy. “ But — before we begin (and you must prompt me. 
Peachy, if I forget things) I’d better ask, child, exactly what 
you have been told.'^ ” 

“ Nothing, except that there was something mysterious 
and tragic which suddenly changed Lady Rosamund Vane- 
Eliot’s life, and made her a different woman, wanting to go 
nowhere and see no one.” 

“ You haven’t heard anyone speak of her son.^* ” 

“ Only to say that he had died. What was he like ” 

“ My dear, he was one of the handsomest, most brilliant 
young men who ever lived, and everyone thought one of the 
noblest and most delightful. Lady Rosamund adored him.” 

266 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


“ So did we all,” murmured Miss Peachy. “ He was the 
most beautiful boy ! ” 

“ His name was Anthony,” went on Miss Poppy, in a sub- 
dued voice, very different from her usual cheery tone. “ His 
father died when he was a child, and when he was about twelve 
years old he became ‘ Sir Anthony.’ He was at Eton then, 
and we used to hear that he was one of the most popular boys 
who’d ever been in the school.” 

“ I can see him now,” sighed Miss Peachy, “ home for his 
holidays, in his Eton jacket and big white collar, taking off 
his tall, shiny hat to the people he met, and showing his curly 
chestnut head. That was when we had our school, and the 
girls used to be wild about him.” * 

“ Never mind that. Peachy,” said her sister. ‘‘ His cousin, 
Paul Vane, used often to come with him to spend those holi- 
days at Queen’s Quadrangles, which was Lady Rosamund’s 
favorite place, though she had another then — or rather, 
Anthony had it, for of course everything was his on his 
father’s death. The cousin was much his elder, seven or eight 
years, for he was one of the old boys at Eton when Anthony 
first went as one of the youngest ; but he was as handsome as 
Anthony in his way, and Anthony looked up to and almost 
worshiped him, as little boys do big boys growing toward 
manhood. Paul Vane was a hero for poor Anthony.” 

“ Paul Vane ! ” echoed Dolores. Lady Desmond’s 
brother ? ” 

“ Y'es. Did you ever meet him, dear? ” 

I saw him once, at a hotel in London,” said the girl, 
“ but I didn’t know who he was then. He was with Lady 
Desmond and another lady, younger than she, though not as 
handsome or interesting.” 


26 T 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ That must have been his wife : his second wife,” broke 
in Miss Peachy. “ Oh, if you could have seen the first one ! 
She was indeed a beauty. Lady Desmond, at her best, wasn’t 
a patch .upon her. They used to be considered rivals, though 
they were cousins, and became sisters-in-law.” 

“ That doesn’t belong in this story that we’re trying to 
tell,” Miss Poppy reminded her twin. 

“ Why, yes it does, in its way, for it was through her that 
all the dreadful things happened ! ” Miss Peachy cried. 

“ We’ll come to that part presently,” Miss Poppy went 
quietly on. “ Anthony and Lady Rosamund were left poorly 
off, considering the estates they had to keep up, but Anthony 
went to Oxford when he was just eighteen; and all his long 
vacations he spent abroad, painting, for he had a real genius 
as an artist, and his pictures made quite a sensation every- 
where, even in Paris. Soon he could sell anything he liked 
to paint for hundreds of pounds. That was a joy to his 
mother, for Lady Rosamund is a proud woman, and she 
couldn’t bear to see her son’s estates going to pieces for want 
of money.” 

“ She was the happiest woman in those days you can im- 
agine ! ” cried Miss Peachy, “ and she looked young enough 
to be Anthony’s sister. She’d always been a great beauty, 
and men had lost their heads over her. Anthony used to pet 
and spoil her as if she were a child — ^just as his father had 
before him, and there was no woman in the county so much 
admired and sought after as she. If she’d liked, she could 
have married a dozen times over, but she was wrapped up in 
her son and in Queen’s Quadrangles, which people used to say 
in old days she’d accepted Sir Digby Vane-Eliot on purpose 
to get. As for the other place, Vane Towers, though it 

ms 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


brought in more rent, she never cared much for it ; which was 
a good thing, as Anthony’s heir, Paul Vane, has it now ; with 
the title and all — for he had to make his name over into Vane- 
Eliot.” 

“ Dear, dear, you’re wandering from the story again,” 
Miss Poppy prompted her sister. “ Dolores has come to hear 
about the tragedy that broke the old, pleasant life, not about 
the life itself. We might talk of that for hours and never 
get to the real point.” 

“ Where does the real point begin ? ” asked Miss Peachy, 
bridling a little. 

‘‘ With the coming of Elinor Vane to Queen’s Quadran- 
gles,” Miss Poppy answered. She was another cousin, you 
must know — a cousin of Paul Vane’s, and a cousin of An- 
thony Vane-Eliot’s — left an orphan and very poor. She was 
younger than Paul, but a few months older than Anthony, 
and though she was nearer of kin to Paul’s family, they 
wouldn’t keep her with them when she was growing up. She 
was too beautiful to live in the same house with Nina Vane, 
who was a couple of years older than she, and was being 
trained by a very ambitious mother to make a great match. 
It wouldn’t have done at all to handicap Nina with a rival 
handsomer and younger than herself.” 

“ How sharp you are. Poppy ! ” cried her sister. “ One 
would think you hated all the Vanes to hear you talk like 
that, and yet you never saw any of them except Elinor and 
Paul, whom you used to admire immensely; and Nina since 
she married and became a widow.” 

“ They were a wicked lot those Vanes. One heard plenty 
of things about them; and if there hadn’t been something 
wrong. Sir Digby wouldn’t have quarreled with the whole 

269 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


family, for he was a peaceable man. If he’d been alive when 
Pa^jjfand Anthony met at Eton, I dare say Paul would 
never have been asked to stay at Queen’s Quadrangles, no 
matter how attractive and fine a fellow he himself might 
have been. But Lady Rosamund, being alone, chose to please 
Anthony, whose hero Paul was, as I said. As to Elinor’s 
being taken into the house, that was a duty and a charity, 
not a pleasure — at least until they grew fond of her. Nina 
was never invited, and I don’t know that she ever even 
saw Lady Rosamund, though Anthony, after great per- 
suasions, used to be allowed occasionally to visit Paul in 
London. 

“ Well, Elinor Vane, wLo hadn’t a penny of her own, and 
who’d been practically turned out by Nina and her mother 
when she was nineteen, wrote to Lady Rosamund (at least, 
that’s what I’ve always believed she did) begging for a home, 
to save her from going out as a governess or lady’s com- 
panion. She offered to help Lady Rosamund for payment, 
but of course Lady Rosamund didn’t want any help she could 
give. She took the girl in partly because it would be a fam- 
ily disgrace that Elinor Vane should take some subordinate 
position with strangers, and partly, maybe, because she liked 
to feel that she could be more generous to a Vane than the 
Vanes themselves. Anyway, Elinor came, and the next thing 
was that everyone was saying she and Anthony were falling 
in love with each other.” 

“ They were certainly the most beautiful young couple to 
see together ! ” put in Miss Peachy, with a sigh for the past. 

“ That’s true,” Miss Poppy admitted, ‘‘ but I don’t think 
they looked beautiful together to Lady Rosamund. She 
thought there’d been enough marrying of cousins in the fam- 

270 


X JZilX X VV X 1 — OIL V HilN 


\ 


ily; besides, the girl hadn’t a penny, and the thing was for 
Anthony to marry money, to keep up the estates as they 
hadn’t been kept up since some terribly bad speculations of 
his father. Sir Digby. Still, I don’t think Lady Rosamund 
could have opposed Anthony, when she found his heart was 
set upon having his cousin, if something hadn’t happened 
which changed the whole situation. 

“ It was about a year after Anthony left Oxford. He was 
only twenty-three, and had settled down to look after his 
estates, doing so well that there was hope of freeing them 
from mortgages that had been pressing since Sir Digby’s 
day. Anthony had been paid high for several pictures, too; 
and everything was going prosperously with the Vane-Eliots 
when Paul Vane arrived at Queen’s Quadrangles to pay a 
visit, on leave from St. Petersburg, where he’d become some- 
thing or other, I’m sure I don’t know what, in the diplomatic 
service. 

“ He’d been away a long time, and had distinguished him- 
self, people said. To my eye, he wasn’t improved, for he’d 
grown very haughty and pleased with himself, though he was 
handsomer than ever, and looked quite a man of the world — 
as indeed he ought, being already twenty-nine and used to 
traveling everywhere. 

“ It was some years since he’d seen Elinor, who’d worn her 
hair down her back and short dresses when he went away — 
thanks to Nina’s mother, who kept her back all she could, 
not to have her in Nina’s way. She’d grown a beauty; and 
from the first minute of his coming to Queen’s Quadrangles 
she made a dead set at Paul. That may be a vulgar expres- 
sion, my dear, and I wouldn’t have you use it, but it tells 
exactly what she did, better than any other that comes to my 

n\ 


-l^HE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

In spite of her lovely face and pleasant ways, Elinor 
iVane was a minx.” 

“ Perhaps she was in love with her cousin,” ventured Do- 
lores, who had always an impulse to defend those who were 
abused, even when there was little question of their guilt. 

“ So she was in love with her cousin,” said Miss Poppy 
briskly, “ but it was her cousin Anthony, not Paul. It was her 
ambition which weighed more with her than the love of years 
— for it was over three years that she’d been with Lady Rosa- 
mund and Anthony; and in the four or five since she’d seen 
Paul Vane he had made all his successes. Anthony had a title, 
to be sure, biit it was only a baronetcy, and if he was to have 
any money, it must come from hard work as an artist. He 
loved his name; and to keep the estates from falling into 
ruin, he must take care of them himself, as he couldn’t afford 
to pay or to trust anyone else to do it. That meant that he’d 
never be more than a country gentleman, and an artist sell- 
ing a picture or two a year — for he was too conscientious in 
his work to paint fast. Whereas, with Paul Vane, people were 
saying there was no height he wouldn’t reach in diplomacy. 
His mother and his sister Nina had only enough money to 
live the life such women must live ; but a distant relation who 
admired Paul — everyone admired Paul! — died and left him 
eight thousand a year. That was a great help in his profes- 
sion, as you can see ; and he was so clever and so ambitious 
there didn’t seem much doubt of his eventually getting a title, 
if he worked for it. 

“ Besides, the life he led in great capitals, in the most 
interesting circles, and in the midst of exciting events, was 
exactly the sort of life Elinor Vane wanted. What did she 
care for the admiration she could get in such a neighborhood 

^72 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 

as this, or for a few weeks of the season in London? She 
longed to have the world at her feet. 

“ I suppose she did have some kind of a struggle, for she’d 
been as much in love with Anthony as it was in her to be; 
and though they’d never been actually engaged (because, I 
think, Anthony’d promised his mother not to marry until 
the mortgages were paid off), there was probably some un- 
derstanding between the two. In any case, before Paul Vane 
had been a week in the house he’d asked Elinor to marry him, 
and she’d said Yes. No doubt he fell in love with her; but 
I’m sure he saw, too, that she was just the sort of girl he 
ought to marry ; one who would help him in his career, as a 
less beautiful and brilliant woman couldn’t, no matter what 
her position or wealth.” 

“ Poppy and I always had an idea,” broke in Miss Peachy 
sagely, “ that Elinor must have gone straight to Anthony 
and appealed to his chivalry, begging him not to let Paul 
know that there’d been anything between them, for haughty 
as Paul had grown, he was still fond of Anthony, and we 
thought he wouldn’t have been mean enough to propose to 
the girl if he knew Anthony wanted her.” 

“ Yes, that was our theory,” said Miss Poppy. “ And as 
for Anthony, there’d never been anyone like Paul for him. 
All these years he’d kept up the same hero-worship for his 
elder cousin, though they’d not been together for so long. 
Never did we see him at this cottage, where he used often 
to come, but he had something to say of Paul and Paul’s 
career; and they corresponded always. Fond as he was of 
Elinor — his first boy’s love — I suppose it must have been a 
kind of joy to sacrifice himself for Paul’s happiness. That 
would have been his nature ; for I used to tell him sometimes 

27S 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


that he wasn’t selfish enough. A queer fault to complain of 
in a boy or young man. But it was Anthony’s fault. He 
used to give up things to others that he ought to have kept 
himself.” 

Once, for instance,” eagerly added Miss Peachy, “ there 
was the question of a prize for the best picture, when he was 
studying art, as a boy. He wanted it, of course, and every- 
one who knew thought he was sure to get it. But another 
boy, whose whole future depended on success, was his rival, 
and what should Anthony do but help that other boy with 
his picture, and help him so well that he carried off the first 
prize, and Anthony got only second! It all came out after- 
wards, through the other boy, for Anthony never said a word 
about what he’d done, not even to Lady Rosamund.” 

“ That was the kind of fault angels might have,” ex- 
claimed Dolores. 

“ Yes,” said Miss Poppy, “ but he had some human ones, 
too. He was dreadfully hot-tempered, though, if he’d lived 
to grow older, he would have conquered himself, I’m sure; 
he tried hard enough. But he inherited quick rages from his 
father, who once nearly killed a groom for kicking a horse. 
That was one thing which went against poor Anthony when 
the tragedy came. But as Peachy says, we always thought 
Elinor must have thrown herself on his generosity, for ap- 
parently Paul had no idea that he wasn’t quite the all-con- 
quering hero with the girl that he was with other people, men 
and women. I’m sure he was confident that Elinor had never 
cared for anyone else, and that she’d fallen in love with him 
at first sight. 

“ They were married after a short engagement and went 
to St. Petersburg. As for Anthony, he loved his mother too 

^74 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


much to let her see that he was unhappy ; but to us he seemed 
changed. Before Elinor’s engagement he was so gay and 
light-hearted, and hopeful about everything, it was a pleas- 
ure to have him come into the house! It was impossible to 
be despondent where he was, no matter what might have 
happened to make you cross. You never saw such joy of life 
as he had till after his disappointment, but though he used 
to seem very jolly and keep us laughing, much as he did 
before, he looked older, and his gayety sometimes seemed a 
little forced. 

“ Perhaps Lady Rosamund guessed, though he took such 
pains to hide his feelings from her ; but anyway she thought 
a change would do him good, and when one of those new 
millionaires, who are always springing up, wanted Anthony 
to go to London and paint a portrait group of his children, 
Lady Rosamund urged him to accept the offer. So he went, 
and gossip used to come down to us from the Chilfords and 
others who knew what was going on in society that he was 
seeing a good deal of his cousin, Nina Vane. She was twenty- 
five or six already, and a beauty who’d refused several good 
offers, though she wasn’t rich — for Lord Desmond hadn’t 
appeared on the scene yet. He was a political peer, and a 
great friend of Paul’s later.” 

‘‘ Did Anthony learn to care about — his other cousin ? ” 
asked Dolores. 

“ Well, the gossip was that Nina liked him better than he 
did her, and that if he’d asked, she would have taken him, 
mortgages and all. But that was only gossip. It was the 
sort of thing people outside can never know for certain,” 
Miss Peachy said. ‘‘ And now we’re coming close to the 
tragedy. 


275 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

“ It was nearly a year after Elinor’s marriage that Lady 
Rosamund persuaded Anthony to go to stop in town and 
do the portrait, while she looked after things in the country. 
And while he was still there, painting, and perhaps amusing 
himself a little, Paul Vane came quite suddenly back to Eng- 
land with his wife. He was promoted to the embassy in Lon- 
don, which was a splendid thing for him, and he and Elinor 
ought to have been the happiest couple in the world, as they 
seemed the most fortunate. But something was wrong be- 
tween them ; everyone noticed that they were no longer lovers 
in manner. Paul had grown cynical, and haughtier than be- 
fore. Elinor had developed into a flirt — which she always 
was at heart — and Paul didn’t approve of her very up-to- 
date notions of her duties as a wife. There was a story that 
they’d quarreled over the atteVdions of one of the Russian 
grand dukes ; and that not only was that the reason Paul 
had tried to get away from St. Petersburg, but that things 
had never been the same between him and Elinor since.” 

“ Elinor wasn’t quite as pretty as she had been, either ; 
you mustn’t forget to tell that,” Miss Peachy reminded her 
sister. “ St. Petersburg hadn’t agreed with her, and she’d 
lost her wonderful coloring. We did hear that she couldn’t 
sleep well, and that she used some drug for her ner es — 
something that changes people’s whole natures if they get 
used to it — morphine, perhaps. And if that was true, maybe 
she wasn’t entirely responsible for all the indiscreet things 
she did in the next few months to get herself talked about.” 

“ She was handsome enough still to be called the prettiest 
woman in England that season,” said Miss Poppy. “ She 
made a great sensation as a married woman and the wife 
of such an important man as Paul Vane was getting to be. 

276 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 

She had everyone she wanted at her parties, from the king 
down ; and there was a judge, who used in those days to be 
called the ‘ hanging judge,’ and so a silly pun was made 
about his hanging after her. But there were plenty of others 
to keep him company. One young man — the very one An- 
thony had helped to get the prize for a picture years before 
— was almost mad about Mrs. Vane. She flirted with him 
outrageously, too, and then got so tired of him that she 
wouldn’t have him near her. He took revenge by painting a 
picture which was the image of Elinor, and naming it ‘ Circe.’ 
It was clever and terrible, and he had it exhibited at a prir 
vate show in Bond Street. That made more talk than ever, 
but Elinor didn’t seem to care. My belief is, that the one 
thing she did care about was to get Anthony Vane-Eliot back. 
She’d probably found out her mistake in making a loveless 
marriage, and learned to value Anthony a hundred times more 
after she’d lost him.” 

“ And did she get him back ? ” asked Dolores, almost in a 
whisper; for though Anthony Vane-Eliot was mentioned in 
the past tense, as one who had been dead for many years, the 
girl’s heart spoke to her of his real identity. What was com- 
ing — what was the nature of the tragedy they hinted at, she 
did not know yet, and she- dreaded to hear. Nevertheless she 
felt that it was not the tragedy of a stranger. 

“ Ah, that was what everybody was wondering ! ” cried 
Miss Poppy. “ You know the difference, my dear, between 
‘ Mirabeau judged by his friends, and Mirabeau judged by 
the people.?’ Well, we were Anthony’s friends, and we were 
sure he was too loyal to his hero and to his own self-respect 
to make love to Paul’s wife, even if he still cared for her as 
he once did. But — he was a great deal at the house, and 

m 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


must have been sorely tempted. Paul didn’t know about the 
past, or suspect anything in the present, and though Anthony 
was so much younger, he was the most intimate friend he’d 
ever had, as well as his cousin. It was natural enough Paul 
should want Anthony to be there ; and then his mother mar- 
ried for the second time to Nina’s great disgust. Nina went 
and lived with her brother and Elinor in Carlton House Ter- 
race ; and we used to say, when people made disagreeable re- 
marks about Anthony and Elinor, that perhaps he was in 
the house more for Nina’s sake than hers. 

“ Be that as it may, the crash came, and nothing we could 
say was of any use, because the awful thing had happened, 
and whatever the motive, there was no denying it. 

“ One night there had been a ball at some great house — 
I’ve forgotten whose — ^but it was the climax of the season, 
in the last days of July. Paul Vane had been in Paris on 
some diplomatic errand, and Anthony went with Elinor and 
Nina to the ball. After it was over he took them home, 
and they must have asked him in. Later, it came out that 
he had appeared to be annoyed with Elinor at the ball — that 
hot temper of his ! — and he’d been overheard in the conserva- 
tory violently reproaching her for something, as if he were 
very angry. He was angry still when he took his two cousins 
back to Carlton House Terrace, and I suppose the same sub- 
ject of dispute was carried on, for there was a terrible scene, 
and he shot her dead.” 

“ Oh, no, no ! ” cried Dolores. “ Don’t say that he killed 
her ! Don’t tell me it was that ! ” 

“ Yes, it was that,” said Miss Poppy very sadly. “ He 
killed her. But oh, my dear, how pale you are ! You are such 
a sympathetic little soul, you feel everything so keenly, 

278 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


That’s why I hated to tell you this long story, which has such 
a dreadful ending. I knew it would grieve you. But you must 
remember, dear, it all happened a long, long time ago, and 
poor Anthony has been out of his agony and shame for many 
years.” 

Dolores bowed her head that the two little ladles might 
not see the quivering of her lips, and clasped her hands 
tightly together to hide their trembling. 

“ For many years — ^yes,” she echoed. “ But — ^you’ve made 
him seem real to me — in hearing his story. A man like that 
wouldn’t have killed a woman.” 

“ Ah, that was what we said ! ” sighed Miss Peachy. “ But 
he confessed that he had done it. Then we had to believe, 
though we felt then, and have ever since, that she must in 
some way have given him the most terrible provocation. She 
knew his temper ! She had no right to strain it to breaking 
point. And there was a revolver lying on a desk close by 
(for the thing happened in Paul Vane’s study), she must have 
known it was there, for it was her husband’s ; and in the evi- 
dence afterwards it appeared that Paul always kept the re- 
volver loaded in a box on that desk.” 

“ Anthony shot her through the lungs,” went on Miss 
Poppy, “ and she didn’t die instantly. Nina was in the room 
through the whole scene; and three minutes after, before 
Elinor was dead, Paul came. He’d got back from Paris sooner 
than he expected, and though he’d arrived in London early 
in the evening, rather than be urged by his wife to go to the 
ball he dined at some quiet restaurant, came home late, and 
had gone to sleep before the three arrived in the house. It was 
the sound of the shot which waked him up and a scream from 
Nina. He hurried down, just in time to see Elinor die, and 

279 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


to hear her say ‘ This is Anthony’s work.’ Then he turned 
to Anthony and asked him if it were true that he had killed 
her ; and, after being silent for a moment, Anthony answered 
that it was true.” 

“ And Nina — Lady Desmond .f* ” breathed Dolores. 

“ Oh, I don’t know what she did then. She must have been 
half dead herself with the horror of such a scene; but after- 
wards, when she was called as a witness, she simply said that, 
seeing what was about to happen, she screamed, and remem- 
bered nothing more.” 

“ Didn’t she tell why Anthony was so angry with Elinor ? 
Didn’t she try to say something which might help him ” Do- 
lores implored. 

“ Well, you see she couldn’t do much to help. Anthony ad- 
mitted that he’d cared for his cousin Elinor years before, and 
that it had made him unhappy to have her marry Paul. Still 
worse, he confessed to loving her after she was married, when 
she’d come back with her husband to live in London ; and 
though he swore that she didn’t think of him except as a 
cousin, and that in nothing was she to blame toward her hus- 
band or toward him, he didn’t deny that he’d been jealous 
of what he called ‘ her innocent flirtations,’ and that he’d 
reproached her for one of them at the ball, and afterwards 
in Paul’s study just before he shot her. Nina’s story tallied 
with his, so far as she told a story at all, for she was ill after 
the awful thing, and she was spared by the lawyers as much 
as possible.” 

“ Was Anthony — put in prison ? ” Dolores asked. 

“ Of course he went to prison as a confessed murderer, 
but there might in the end have been a verdict for manslaugh- 
ter or something of that sort, which the lawyers get up to 

280 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


save people who have had some excuse for their crime, but — 
the judge who used to admire Elinor Vane was the one who 
tried him, and he summed up dead against the prisoner. Peo- 
ple said it was almost as if he advised the jury to convict; 
and Anthony was condemned to be hanged.” 

“ Do be careful. Poppy ! ” cried Miss Peachy. ‘‘ The child 
is almost fainting — and who can wonder, when she’s living 
in the house which was the poor fellow’s dearly loved home ! ” 

“ No — no, I shan’t faint,” stammered Dolores, sickly pale. 
‘‘ Please go on. Miss Poppy. Tell me — all.” 

“ There was a petition for him, signed by many important 
persons, but the Home Secretary answered that he didn’t see 
his way to granting it,” went on the old lady. “ People 
wrote letters to the newspapers against Anthony, too, call- 
ing themselves ‘ Socialists,’ ^ Friends of J ustice,’ and that 
kind of thing, saying it would be a disgrace to England if 
a man were let off because he had money and a title, when, 
if ever a murderer deserved to suffer for a dastardly crime, 
it was Sir Anthony Vane-Eliot. No one talked of anything 
else for weeks and months, and you can imagine the state of 
mind down here, where there have been Vane-Eliots since 
Tudor days. Some of Lady Rosamund’s old friends showed 
great lack of tact about the way they tried to testify their 
sympathy with her after Anthony’s confession of guilt. She 
resented it passionately, and didn’t discriminate as she might 
have done, for she seemed to have the idea that everyone was 
against Anthony. She refused to see anybody; and old 
Soames, the butler, who always opened the door to visitors 
even in those days, used simply to glare at people, as if he 
would have liked to kill them, or at least slam the door in 
their faces. Some deserved it, maybe — those who went out 

281 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


of curiosity ; yet there were many who didn’t, many who were 
sorry from their hearts not only for Lady Rosamund, but 
for Anthony. And there was a gloom over the whole neigh- 
borhood — almost over the whole country — after the day was 
fixed for the poor boy’s death. Only think, he wasn’t five 
and twenty ! and though he wasn’t rich, or a grand parti, he 
was so brilliant, so clever and gay and handsome, that he 
was more popular than many richer and more important 
young men. Oh, dear, even now, when he’s been in his grave 
these nine years, I can’t bear to think of that dreadful time ! 
Peachy and I were almost ill, we were so miserable. As for 
Lady Rosamund, his poor mother, I daren’t think what she 
must have suffered. I did hear that her hair turned white in 
a fortnight, but I don’t know if it’s true. If you’ll believe me, 
none of us have ever seen her from that day to this. She was 
in London from the time of Anthony’s arrest till his death, 
moving Heaven and earth to save him, and when she came 
back after it was all over to Queen’s Quadrangles, it was sup- 
posed that she arrived in the night. Not once has she been 
seen outside the gates since.” 

“ Her hair is white,” Dolores almost whispered. ‘‘ But — 
you haven’t told me yet how — he died.” 

“ Thank Heaven, he died in his cell two days before he was 
to have been — executed,” answered Miss Poppy, as pale and 
agitated now as if the events of which she told had happened 
but yesterday. “ Heart failure was the verdict of the prison 
doctor, and everyone said, ‘ Thank God ! ’ when they heard 
the news. It was as if the whole county had been unexpectedly 
saved from a terrible disgrace. And I should think even the 
— prison authorities, and the people who would have had to 
— kill him, were thankful to be spared such a dreadful duty. 

^82 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


Where he was buried we never knew — ^nobody knew except 
those who arranged it, I suppose ; but we have always had the 
idea that Lady Rosamund got permission to bring the body 
away with her, and that the poor, unfortunate boy lies some- 
where at Queen’s ” 

“ Oh, Poppy, ought you to tell her that? ” cried Miss 
Peachy. “ It may frighten the child to feel ” 

“ Nonsense,” said Miss Poppy. “ She’s too sensible ; and, 
besides, she asked to hear all. Now she has heard all. For 
that’s the very end of the sad story, so far as it concerns 
Anthony Vane-Eliot or his mother ; except that, because he’d 
broken the entail and left Queen’s Quadrangles to her, Paul 
Vane thought he had been treated with great injustice. Nina, 
too, used to go about saying that not only had Anthony dis- 
graced the whole family, and taken his brother’s wife from 
him, but he had rpblfied Paul of his rightful inheritance as 
well. She married^Lord Desmond within two years, and was 
a widow before five had passed. As for Paul, he seemed com- 
pletely broken for a while, and retired from the diplomatic 
service, but a couple of years ago he married for the second 
time an enormously rich, youngish woman, quite different 
from Elinor, very quiet, and not at aU a beauty, but devoted 
to him.” 

“ Did he try to save his cousin Anthony, who had loved 
him so much? ” asked Dolores. 

‘‘ Who knows ? ” returned Miss Poppy. “ Perhaps he did. 
But there were those who said he wanted Anthony to suffer — 
that he had no forgiveness for him in his heart.” 

“ And — Lady Desmond ? ” 

‘‘ I don’t think we are competent to judge her. But there 
must be something frivolous in her nature, it seems, to get 

^83 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


over it all so completely that she can bear to visit strangers 
at Anthony’s old place, though Lady Rosamund is still in the 
house. But people are strange! And nine years is a long 
time in a woman’s life. We never knew her, yet one hears 
talk. Still, there must be something good, or at least fasci- 
nating about Nina Desmond, to have made so sweet-natured 
a fellow as St. John de Grey her loyal friend. To hear him 
speak of her, one would have to believe she’s near perfection.” 

“ But you mustn’t think for a minute he’s in love with her, 
or ever was,” Miss Peachy hastened to supplement her sister’s 
words, with a look of warning for her elder twin. Our 
friends who go to town a good deal, and know something of 
society, telj us that Nina Desmond has simply thrown her- 
self at St. John’s head for two or three years — indeed, ever 
since she began to go out after her husband’s death; and 
that St. John had never seemed to realize what she meant. 
He’s not a flirt, like too many young men, my dear, and until 
quite lately had been too taken up with his profession to think 
much about women — a true soldier, as he is. Indeed, he’s had 
the reputation of being hard to capture; and I’ve no doubt 
that’s why Nina Desmond singled him out for notice. She’s 
a woman who, to be happy, must be supreme; one of those 
who can’t rest easy while there’s a man within reach who isn’t 
in love with her.” 

“ Peachy 1 I never heard you so sharp-tongued about any- 
one 1 ” exclaimed Miss Poppy, surprised. 

‘‘ Well,” the little lady excused herself, blushing like a girl, 
“ I don’t want Dolores to do St. John an injustice. I want 
her to understand,^^ 

“ I think I do understand,” said Dolores quietly, her great 
eyes looking far away. She had regained her self-control now, 

^84 


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN 


and seemed almost unnaturally calm. As she spoke she rose, 
and thanked Miss Poppy and Miss Peachy for their kind- 
ness in telling her what she had wished very much to hear. 
“ I’m afraid it has made you both sad to bring all this back,” 
she said, “ but — I’m very grateful ; and I don’t know what I 
should have done without your goodness. I couldn’t have 
gone to anyone else, and I had to know.” 

Then, though they urged her to stay until she had recov- 
ered from the shock of hearing so sad a story, the girl said 
that she must go. There were things that she must do — and 
already it was late. 

You’re sure you do understand about Captain de Grey.?^ ” 
were Miss Peachy’s last words. 

“ Yes, I’m sure I understand,” said Dolores, looking back 
with an odd, little smile. 

‘‘ I do hope, dear, that you haven’t done St. John any 
harm in that direction,” sighed Miss Peachy to her sister 
when the girl had passed through the gate and out of sight. 
“ It was here he met her first. And we’ve hoped for a romance 
ever since.” 

‘‘ The porch was hung with roses then ; now the Virginia 
creeper has turned red,” murmured Miss Poppy. “ Spring 
and summer are for love-making ; and there’s something in 
that child’s mind that’s out of tune with all three,^^ 


285 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 


-m 


WHEN A man’s in LOVE 


I T did not matter to St. John de Grey that rose-time was 
over, when he saw Dolores Eliot coming down the green 
tunnel where he had first seen her sheltering from the 
rain. Her coming brought the summer back for him, and 
the very thought of her was sweet as the perfume of lilies 
and roses. 

‘‘ Out so early ! ” he called from a distance, as Toddles 
rushed exuberantly to meet the girl. Then, as he drew near, 
the look on her face surprised and startled him. He saw that 
she was pale, and that there was something like terror in 
her eyes. 

‘‘ Why, Miss Eliot, what has happened to distress you ? ” 
he asked abruptly, in a changed voice, his smile of greeting 
chilled to sudden gravity. 

“ Is my face such a tell-tale ? ” Dolores questioned anxious- 
ly, it seemed to St. John, though she tried to smile. I’m 
sorry. Nothing has happened to me. But — ^I am sad. It 
doesn’t go with this beautiful morning to be sad, and I feel 
out of place in the sunshine, so I’m hurrying home.” 

“ That means that I mustn’t keep you,” he said. But 
may Toddles and I turn round and walk with you part of the 
way till you tire of us ? Don’t say ‘ Yes,’ if we’d bore you, 
and you’d rather be alone. Only — ^we’d like to come.” 

Dolores seemed to hesitate for a few seconds, and St. John 

286 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 


thought that she was seeking an excuse to send him away 
without hurting his feelings ; but if such a thought had come 
to her at first, she changed her mind. 

“ Yes, come with me,” she said. “ I shall be glad.” 

For a moment or two they walked side by side without 
speaking; then St. John broke the silence impulsively. 

“ I suppose I mustn’t ask you any questions,” he said, 
“ but it makes me miserable to see you look like this. It makes 
me want to fight somebody ; only I don’t know ^ whobody,’ 
as I used to say when I was small. Shall it be anybody you’ve 
seen this morning? ” 

“ I’ve seen only the Misses Greenleaf,” said Dolores. “ I 
wanted them to help me about something, and they did.” 

‘‘ I wish it had been I ! ” exclaimed De Grey. “ Isn’t there 
anything left for me to do ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” Dolores said. Perhaps. I was thinking 
about you when I saw you coming.” 

Really and truly? Were you feeling sorry for me? ” 
Why should I ? ” the girl wanted to know. 

“ Because — well, if you weren’t — that’s a good sign. For 
if you had done a certain thing last night — a thing some- 
body almost made me believe you had done — you would 
have been sorry for me, I think; because you have a kind 
heart.” 

“ I wonder what you mean ? ” Dolores said. 

“ Oh, I haven’t got any right to talk to you like this ; 
but I didn’t sleep much last night, and I suppose I’m rather 
out of form this morning. I thought a walk would be the best 
thing for Toddles and me. Toddles is always sympathetic, 
poor chap, and off his feed if I am; so I tubbed about six, 
dressed myself, and came out.” 

287 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

Exactly what I did ! ” exclaimed Dolores. “ But what did 
you fancy I did last night which ought to have made me 
sorry for you ? ” 

“ Well — if you won’t think me a beast for blurting it out 
like this, I thought — maybe you’d promised another man 
that you — now I see by your face you do know what I mean ! 
Forgive me.” 

“ Yes, I suppose I know what you mean,” the girl admitted. 
“ And I do forgive you. I didn’t do the thing you think, and 
I never will.” 

“ Honestly ? Then you don’t lo ” 

“ No, of course not. Did I act as if I did.?* ” 

“ You didn’t. But a man can never tell about girls, and 
La ” 

“ Don’t stop. Go on.” 

“ I can’t. It would be caddish.” St. John’s face was red. 

“ I believe I’ve guessed. Lady Desmond said something 
about it. I do think I have a right to know what.” 

“ By Jove! Fancy you’re spotting it like that — as if you 
were clairvoyant. She only said that you — that he — No, 
I’d better stop there.” 

“ I know. She said I’d marry him if he asked me.” 

There wasn’t any question about his asking. That went 
without saying. But you see, she and I are rather pals. 
She’s an awfully good friend, and she didn’t want me to 
play the moth, when I should get nothing for it except 
burned wings. This shows even a woman can be mistaken 
about another woman. Miss Eliot, is there any possible chance 
for me.? ” 

“ I like you very, very much,” answered Dolores. “ But I 
don’t love you.” 


288 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 


“ Well,” said St. John, “ I didn’t dare to hope. That set- 
tles it. I shan’t bother you about it. And I oughtn’t to 
have 

“ It doesn’t settle it,” Dolores said. “ Unless you choose.” 

“ You — you mean ” 

“ I mean that I want to ask you something — more than 
one thing — before I give you any answer. Would you care 
about marrying me if I could only like and not love you.?^ ” 

“ If I could make you happy — yes,” St. John answered 
eagerly. “ I love you so much, I’d trust to luck to make you 
love me back again in time — if you’d give me the blessed 
chance to try. Will you ? ” 

“ I don’t know yet. I haven’t asked you all the things I 
have to ask. Suppose I said Yes, not just to please you, but 
to gain something for myself that wasn’t connected with you 
at all, would you still want me.f^ ” 

“ I wouldn’t let you marry me because you’d quarreled 
with some other man, and wanted to take revenge on him,” 
St. John answered bluntly. “As far as Pm concerned, I 
would. I’d take you anyhow, and be thankful. But that way 
wouldn’t be fair to you, because you’d regret it afterwards, 
and I couldn’t stand that.” 

“ It wouldn’t be for any such reason,” said Dolores, “ if 
I promised to — to be engaged to you. But — I wouldn’t want 
to tell you what the reason really was.” 

“ Perhaps it would be a woman’s reason ; ‘ just because! ’ ” 

“ Perhaps. Would you want to be engaged to me — for a 
woman’s reason ? ” 

“ Yes. For any reason, except the one I said. Will you, 
darling.? I can’t tell you how much I love you. It’s a good 
deal beyond words.” 


289 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ If I said Yes now, would you risk my having to break 
it off later? ” 

“ I would. Because I’d try so hard meanwhile to make you 
willing to keep on.” 

“ If I broke with you, it wouldn’t be because I found out 
that I couldn’t love you. I know now just how much I could 
love you. Enough to make you happy, I think.” 

“ Would it be enough to make you happy? ” 

“ I’m not thinking about that. If I broke with you, it 
would be because of a woman.” 

“Oh, in that case. I’ll risk anything!” cried St. John. 

And I bless my lucky stars that I thought of taking a walk 
this morning. Darling, you’ve pulled me out of the depths 
and set me on the heights.” 

“ I’m not sure that I am not very wicked,” said Dolores. 

“ I’m sure that you are a white angel,” retorted De Grey. 
“ May I come in with you and talk with Mrs. Eliot? ” 

“ No — ^no ! ” cried the girl. “ We’re not even engaged. We 
may never be. It’s only this: that you’ve asked me to marry 
you, and I haven’t said No. Please don’t be too happy. But 
please don’t hate me.” 

“ There’s not much danger of the last,” said St. John. 
“ As for the first ” 

“You must wait!” interjected Dolores. And when he 
would have kissed her hand — since her lips were not yet for 
him — she broke from him and ran through the half open gate 
of Queen’s Quadrangles. 

Tempted to follow, he resisted, and stood still, looking 
after the flying white figure. He had said that there was not 
much danger of his hating her. Now he began to feel that 
neither was there much danger of his being too happy. 

290 


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT 


She was in a strange mood, a mood which he could not un- 
derstand at all, and he told himself that perhaps he had taken 
undue advantage of it. 

Certainly something queer had happened to her since they 
had parted after the ball last night, though even then she 
had seemed less happy than excited. Whatever the queer 
thing was, St. John realized that he had it to thank for the 
girl’s half acceptance of his love. He did not know whether 
to consider that she was engaged to him or not ; but he did 
know that she had seemed to need help ; and he said to him- 
self that, if it would help her to break his heart, he would 
wish to have her break it. 

“ She shall do what she likes with me,” he said to himself. 
“ I am hers, even if she never should be mine.” 


291 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 


LADY ROSAMUND 

F rances ELIOT had just finished breakfast, which 
had been brought to her bedroom, when Dolores 
knocked at the door and was let in by Parker. 

The first glance at her mother’s face told the girl that 
nothing disturbing had happened yet. Frances was happy in 
the success of the ball; and thinking anxiously how she was 
to begin the subject which must soon be broached, Dolores 
was led into gentle talk of last night’s triumphs ; what Lady 
Chilingworth had said ; what compliments the duke had paid ; 
how good it was of him to come; and they had only got as 
far as Lady Desmond’s dress when Parker appeared at the 
door of the adjoining boudoir. She had been sent away os- 
tensibly to mend a lace flounce, and now she announced a mes- 
sage from Lady Rosamund, brought by Soames. 

Dolores’s heart leaped lest the dreaded moment had come 
before she had been able to prepare her mother. But to her 
surprise and relief Lady Rosamund asked to see her, not 
Mrs. Eliot. 

Her ladyship, said Soames, was waiting to speak with 
Miss Eliot at the door of Miss Eliot’s own room; and this 
news surprised Dolores. It was strange that, after the ter- 
rible scene of last night, the woman who had ordered her to 
leave the house should come seeking her. It was as if Lady 
Rosamund purposely humbled herself ; yet that could hardly 

292 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 

be her meaning, the girl thought ; and glad as she was of this 
chance, she dreaded the words she might have to hear, the 
look of anger she might have to meet. 

Her first sight of the beautiful worn face, however, told 
her that a few hours had worked a great change in Lady 
Rosamund’s mind. 

“ I want you to forgive me,” were the first words the elder 
woman spoke. 

Such an unexpected beginning was almost more startling 
than an attack, and Dolores’s blood rushed to her face as if 
Lady Rosamund had struck her on the cheek. 

“ Please come into my room — if you don’t mind,” she said, 
opening the door with a hand that trembled a little. 

“ I would not mind crawling in on my knees,” the other an- 
swered, “ if that could make you forget what I did and said 
last night.” 

“ If you wish me to forget, then, there is nothing to for- 
give,” Dolores answered, when Lady Rosamund had passed 
into the room, with a drooping step. As the girl glanced at 
the white, bowed head of the graceful woman who trailed 
wearily in, she said to herself with a pang of fear that Lady 
Rosamund looked old, very old. What had happened in the 
night to age and break her thus.?* Could he be ill, or — Do- 
lores shrank in anguish from finishing the thought. 

“You don’t say that you can forget.^” the pale woman 
said. 

“ How can I forget ? ” asked the girl. “ It was as if you 
branded me with redhot iron. But what does it matter whether 
I forget or not.? There’s only one thing of importance now. 
His safety.” 

Lady Rosamund started, and once more lightning blazed 

£93 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


from the dark, weary eyes. “ Why should he not be safe — 
unless you have betrayed him? But, oh, forgive me again! 
I know you have not.” 

“You look as if you had suffered since you — saw me in 
the corridor,” said Dolores, speaking bravely. “ That’s why 
I asked such a question.” 

“ He’s as safe as he has ever been — physically,” Lady 
Rosamund answered. “ But he knows what I did to you. If 
you could have seen his face when I told him, you would 
not want me punished in any other way. He has given me 
the whole history of your friendship with him, beginning 
at the first meeting. I know now how cruelly unjust I was 
to you last night.” 

“ Is it only that which has changed you so since then ? ” 
cried the girl in surprise. 

“ No. It’s more than that — much more ; though I am 
sorry enough, as sorry as you can wish me to be, I think. 
But I have suffered for him, and because I have made him 
suffer. Never have I seen him look as he did when I went 
to him, and broke out in a fury against you — against what 
I thought your treachery. Once he might have been swept 
with a tempest of anger, but he has passed beyond that stage, 
as he has passed beyond his first youth. What I saw in his 
eyes last night was harder to bear than his anger would 
have been in the old days when it used to come and go like 
a flame. He didn’t reproach me, yet I know that he will 
never feel the same again, unless you forgive me and go 
back to him.” 

“ But — ^he doesn’t want me to come again,” said the girl. 

“ He wants you more than he wants anything else. You 
are the only thing that he does want.” 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 


He said last night that it would be better for us not 
to meet any more; and he bade me good-by.” 

“ He said that ? Then it was because — Ah, I think I un- 
derstand. But I implore you not to take him at his word. 
He lived without you, before he knew what it was to have 
you in his life — if you can call it life. Yet now, I believe 
he will not be able to go on living if he is to lose you. The 
one interest he has would be gone. Ah, you see how I hum- 
ble myself to tell you this. You see how little I am to him, 
compared with you. But instead of trying to keep you from 
him. I’ll kneel to you if it will give you satisfaction — and if 
it needs that to make you grant my request.” 

“ Oh, it doesn’t ! ” cried the girl, ashamed to witness this 
proud woman’s humiliation. “ I would gladly go back — oh, 
so gladly, if he himself hadn’t told me not to come. And 
you know you said last night that mother and I must leave 
this house to-day ” 

‘‘ Must you remind me of that.?^ I’ve begged you to forget.” 
“ But I’d made up my mind what to say to mother, so 
that she mightn’t think it too strange. I wanted her to pay 

you the rent for two years, just the same, and ” 

“You wanted that, in spite of the way I treated you.^ 
That was very noble, and I thank you. But I couldn’t have 
taken the money, if things had been as I thought they were 
last night. I would even have tried to pay your mother back 
all she’s spent upon the place, though it would have taken 
a long time — unless I sold aU the pictures and china. I have 
sold many things before now.” 

“ I thought perhaps you had, when we came,” said Dolores, 
for there were empty places where old furniture or por- 
traits should have been; and it made me so sorry. But now 

295 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

I know why you did it. It was for him. And for his sake, 
not your own, I should have made you accept the money — 
the money you wanted so much that you were ready to take 
strangers into your home.” 

“ Do you know what he is to me? ” asked Lady Rosamund, 
in a low, broken voice. 

“ I think — ^he is your son Anthony.” 

“ He told you.? ” 

“ No, he has told me nothing about himself. But this 
morning I heard the story of your son, and — oh, be sure I 
didn’t hear it from an enemy! I wouldn’t have listened. It 
was told me by some one who loved him well — some one who 
speaks and thinks of him as dead. But I guessed the truth. 
And I know, of course, that he was innocent.” 

“ I know that too, though he has never told me how Elinor 
Vane died. I have only guessed. And you have guessed 
too ” 

“ I guessed that you saved him, and that his whole life 
has been vowed to you since. Don’t look frightened, Lady 
Rosamund. I would be burned at the stake rather than tell 
anyone but you what is in my thoughts about him. You 
were glorious — wonderful — to do what you must have done. 
And even if you hated me as you did last night I should still 
love you for that.” 

“ I am his mother,” whispered Lady Rosamund. “ What 
mother wouldn’t have done the same.? But since you know 
— since I think you understand now, and forgive, you won’t 
leave this house.? Stay and help me to make his existence 
bearable. He has seemed so much brighter, so different these 
last few weeks, just as I had begun to despair, watching his 
slow agony, and almost wishing, for his sake, that I had let 

296 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 


him die. Oh, I know I am selfish in asking such a sacrifice of 
you — in trying to chain you to the same prison in which I 
am bound. But he’s my life.” 

“ I would rather stay and help you in that way than any- 
thing else in the world,” said Dolores. “ But how can I, 
since he doesn’t want to see me again ” 

“ I tell you he does want you — and nothing but you,” 
repeated Lady Rosamund, almost fiercely. “ Don’t you think 
I know? I believe that you’ve kept him from suicide. Some- 
times he must have been terribly tempted; but his promise 
to me has held his hand ; and then you came, a blessing from 
heaven. He called you that, when I went to him to accuse 
you.” 

“ Yet often, night after night, he has refused to have me 
with him,” Dolores said. “ All last week.” 

“ Ah, that was my fault. Perhaps it has always been my 
fault,” pleaded the elder woman. “ Last week was a terrible 
anniversary. Nine years ago at that time he was to have 
died a criminal’s death. While that week in October is pass- 
ing, I can never rest; and it was more than ever dreadful 
this year. When the house was empty, save for myself and 
the two old servants who have shared the secret with me, 
Anthony was able to come out of his prison sometimes. Since 
you have been here, he and I have had to be more separated ; 
though I took the priest’s room and the steward’s room for 
mine so that we might reach each other easily. During that 
awful anniversary week I can never rest, for I live through 
it all again, each year. Time can’t dim the vividness of such 
memories. Usually we have our meetings before ten o’clock 
at night ; and his custom used to be to take an hour or two 
of exercise on the lake or in the park afterwards. But when 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


I suffer from nervous headaches I go to him, or he comes 
to me, and his presence saves me from horrors inexpressible. 
I always know by day when it is likely to be bad beyond 
endurance, and then I go, or send word by Soames to say 
that I will meet him. Not a night last week that Anthony 
was not bathing my head or soothing me with dear and 
gentle words, till nearly morning. Strange, that it should be 
he who helps me by his strength, and not I him. But so it 
is. There was never anyone like Anthony. These stony years, 
of misery, instead of driving him to madness or desperation, 
have made of him a hero and a saint.” 

“Now I begin to understand why he has never tried to 
escape to some other country, where he might live in freedom 
in disguise, under another name,” said Dolores. 

“ You think he stayed here for my sake.^ Yes, that is true. 
He knew I couldn’t exist without him ; and he knew, too, that 
though he might possibly have got away safely, if he went 
alone, he couldn’t have taken me. Together, we could not 
have kept the secret, if we had left this house, which was 
made for the keeping of secrets. He wouldn’t subject me to 
the misery of leading a hunted life, each hour in danger of 
discovery. Think, if we had been taken, and had been forced 
to go through all that horror again! I couldn’t have saved 
him a second time. It would have been a hundred deaths in 
one for me. And, besides, if Anthony had tried to live by 
his painting, as he must have done if abroad, it would almost 
surely have led to detection. Here, I’ve contrived an existence, 
and torn a wretched living of a sort out of the estate which 
Anthony made mine. But at last, because there was no money 
to spend on repairs, the place was going to ruin. I had to 
advertise for tenants — and I thought, if I made the condition 

298 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 


that I should be housekeeper, and the two old servants should 
be kept on, there would be no danger for Anthony, in the 
lost court. He would still be able to go out at night; I 
could visit him, and he could come to me if I took the 
steward’s room. I didn’t tell him at first that we were to 
have strangers in the house, for I knew he would hate the 
idea — yet money was so necessary! It was only when every- 
thing was settled that I confessed; and he didn’t blame me. 
He never does, for anything I do — my poor boy! But I 
could see how he detested the thought ; and afterwards I won- 
dered at finding him more cheerful than he had ever been 
since his martyrdom began.” 

“ Didn’t he want you to save him from death ? ” Dolores 
asked. 

“No, I forgot that I hadn’t made you understand that. 
When he had been condemned to die, I got permission to see 
him for a few minutes alone. They searched me first, of 
course, and satisfied themselves that I could do nothing to 
hinder the crime they called justice. But in my mouth I car- 
ried a tin y sealed tube of glass, just big enough to hold half 
a dozen drops of a dark red liquid. Many years ago this 
tube had been given me, in India, when I was a girl, and 
my father was viceroy. It had been made a present to me by 
the favorite of a rajah, and she had had it from her mother. 
‘ There is three days’ sleep in those six ruby drops,’ she said. 
Then she went on to tell me that one who drank would seem 
to be dead; no beating of the heart; no film on a mirror 
held over the mouth. Even if buried, provided the grave were 
opened within seventy hours, the sleeper would be found alive. 
And the ranee gave me her treasure because my father’s in- 
fluence had restored to the rajah a great province which he 

299 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


had lost. It was the thing that she valued most ; and though 
it did not seem then that it could ever be of use to me, I 
kept it always. It was as if some prophetic spirit had whis- 
pered in my ear the awful need I would have of it one day. 

“ I gave the tube to Anthony, but I deceived him, and 
said there was death in it — a better death than the shame- 
ful one appointed. He was glad, and thanked me, for brave 
as he was, the thought of such a disgraceful end had been a 
horror to him — more for my sake than his own, I think. 

“ It was agreed between us that he should hide the tube as 
I had hidden it — in his mouth — and break the seal that night, 
so that he might appear to have died in his sleep. But I 
know if I had told him the truth, he wouldn’t have consented 
to take the stuff. He wanted to die, and even for me he 
could not have accepted life at such a price as he has paid, 
3’ear after year. I was saving him in spite of himself. But I 
couldn’t be sure that I was saving him. How could I tell that 
the red drops in the tube hadn’t lost their virtue, or that the 
ranee had made a mistake and the stuff was poison.? 

“ There was that risk to run. But even if it were poison, 
it would be better that Anthony should die of it than be given 
to the hangman. Oh, it was a thousand times worth risking! 
Yet the suspense I suffered during the next three days all 
but drove me to madness. At night, I dream of it now — 
often; especially at this time of year, which I always dread. 

“ You heard the story, how Anthony died in his cell.? There 
was great sympathy for me, and I had some influence in high 
places, so I was allowed to have my son’s body. In its coffin 
they smuggled it out of the prison at night, and I brought 
it home; I, and old Soames, who loved him. He was in the 
secret, and he and I had got ready the lost court, making 

300 


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE 


it habitable, in case all should go well, and Anthony should 
live. 

“ It was in the lost court that he waked up ; and at first 
he could hardly forgive me for what I had done. If he had 
not known that it would kill me, he would have destroyed 
himself. In his despair he said things terrible for me to hear, 
called me more cruel than the hangman who would have put 
him out of misery. But when I broke down utterly, he re- 
pented and begged my forgiveness. Since then, he has never 
lost his self-control; yet knowing what a fire must rage in 
his heart, it has nearly broken mine to see him so calm out- 
wardly. 

“ For my sake h^ has gone on living, through the blank 
days and nights that made the years, till you came. Since 
then, the days and nights have not been blank. He has had 
an interest. I know very well why he kept that interest a 
secret, never telling me that you had come into his life. He 
thought I would be jealous. And he was right. I am jealous. 
But my love is greater than my jealousy — greater than he 
has ever dreamed yet. Above all, I want his happiness — such 
poor happiness as he can have. If he has told you not to 
come to him again, it is because he thinks it is not fair to 
you. Don’t take him at his word. I promise you that he’ll 
be glad to have you hack — glad as a man lost in a desert 
is at sight of an oasis.” 

‘‘ Then I will go to him, since you bid me,” said Dolores. 
“ It made me miserable to be sent away — first by him, then 
by you. I tried to get to him last night, because there was 
something I wanted to say — for his own sake. This morn- 
ing, I hoped that I might send word by you, since I was 

never to see him again. But after all — I will wait ” 

301 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ Yes, wait till you see him yourself,” broke in Lady 
Rosamund eagerly. “ There’s another door into the lost court 
that you don’t know, perhaps, leading out of the priest’s 
wardrobe. When the place was made, there had to be plenty 
of ways into the court, lest one or another should be im- 
possible at any time. But I always keep the priest’s wardrobe 
locked. Anthony could never let you out through that room, 
but I can let you in ; and it’s the only safe way by daylight, 
when there may be servants about. Come with me now. I’ll 
take you to him.” 

Dolores hesitated. And before she could answer, a clock 
on the mantel began to strike. It struck twelve; and at any 
moment Lady Desmond might arrive. 

The girl had meant to give Lady Rosamund some warn- 
ing of danger ; but she had a different idea now. This pale 
woman had suffered too much. Unless there was pressing 
need, Anthony’s mother must be spared further pain, and a 
vague plan was shaping itself in the girl’s mind. She meant 
to fight with Nina Desmond for Anthony’s safety, and she 
was going to fight alone. 


302 


CHAPTER THIRTY 


A woman’s battle 

L ady DESMOND was prompt. 

j It was scarcely five minutes past twelve when she 
arrived at Queen’s Quadrangles, on foot, and sent 
word that she wished to see Miss Eliot. 

Dolores found her sitting in the small white drawing-room, 
and as she rose — a tall figure in black, with a drooping hat 
that shadowed her face — she was like some modern French 
artist’s conception of Fate. 

The girl had never seen her in black before, and in- 
stinctively she felt that the dress had been worn for a pur- 
pose. Nina had wished to impress and overawe her. 

A little while ago no such suspicion would have come to 
her mind. But now she seemed to know things about the 
elder woman without being told. It was as if a master key 
to Lady Desmond’s intricate nature had been put into her 
hand and she had been taught how to use it. She had been 
afraid of Nina last night, but she was not afraid of her now. 

There were no conventional greetings between them. After 
one glance at the girl’s grave face. Lady Desmond went 
straight to the business on which she had come. 

“ Where can we talk without danger of being overheard 
or interrupted.'^ ” she asked. “ It’s not safe here.” 

“ Let us go out of doors, then,” Dolores suggested. “ You 
make me feel as if I needed sunshine and open air.” 

303 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


‘‘ That doesn’t sound like a compliment,” said Nina, with 
a dry laugh. 

“ It is not one,” Dolores answered. ‘‘ You didn’t come 
here, dressed as if in mourning, to hear compliments, did 
you.'^ ” 

“ I wore black because colors seemed to jar, when I 
thought of the things we might have to say to each other,” 
explained Lady Desmond, giving the girl a sharp glance. 
“ I can tell you, I’m in no gay mood. And you — ^you have a 
strange manner, and a strange look. I hardly know you 
this morning.” 

“Yet I seem to know you better than I ever did before,” 
said Dolores. “ Shall we go outside.? There’s a summer- 
house just on the borders of the park, if you don’t mind 
five minutes’ walk. No one ever comes there, and we can talk 
safely.” 

“ As you like,” answered Nina, shrugging her shoulders. 
And in silence they crossed the lawns together. Lady Des- 
mond trailing her black dress over the close-clipped grass. 
Each was wondering how best to begin her part in the battle 
which both foresaw ; and so, without having spoken once, they 
came to the old summerhouse where Dolores had imprisoned 
the spaniel puppy. 

It was a curious little Georgian “ temple ” of meretricious 
architecture, and the girl flung all the windows wide open. 

“What toys are these.?” Nina asked sharply, looking at 
the battered rocking-horse, and. the wooden soldiers huddled 
into a corner by their broken fort. 

“ I think perhaps they were Anthony Vane-Eliot’s,” re- 
turned Dolores, speaking the name without faltering. 

“ Oh ! You know a great deal about him.” 

304 


CHAPTER THIRTY 


“ I’ve heard his story.” 

“ You refused to hear it from me.” 

I didn’t even know then whose story you were trying 
to tell. But I wouldn’t listen because I knew that, whoever 
it was, you were his enemy. Won’t you sit down.^^ See, I’ve 
dusted this seat with my handkerchief.” 

“ No ! ” ejaculated Nina, shortly. “ I can’t sit here. I hate 
this place.” 

“ You hate it because you think Anthony Vane-Eliot used 
to play here,” said Dolores. ‘‘ And you feel as if he were 
near now. With his old playthings scattered round you, 
it may be hard to say what you want to say to me.” 

“ How do you know what I want to say ? ” Lady Des- 
mond asked, her eyes dilating. 

“ I know you want to tell me things about him which are 
not true, and you would rather tell them somewhere else.” 

“ You are very impertinent — very insulting — yet I came 
to see you as your friend.” The color mounted slowly to 
Lady Desmond’s face, under the pearly film of liquid powder. 

“ I should perhaps have believed that a few days ago,” 
said the girl, “ but not now. One has revelations sometimes. 
Please begin with what you wish to say, because there’s no 
other place as safe as this for us to talk without being dis- 
turbed. And after all, those poor toys aren’t ghosts, are 
they ? ” 

“ One thing I have to talk of is a ghost,” Nina caught 
Dolores up, still refusing to sit down. “ Tillingbourne told 
me about the ghost he saw in the library, you know. And he 
said you saw it too.” 

The girl did not answer, but stood waiting, very quiet 
and grave. When Lady Desmond saw that her face did not 

305 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


change, and that she did not flinch at all, she went on, less 
aggressively. 

“ Tillingbourne believes in ghosts ; I don’t. And I don’t 
think you do ? ” 

Still Dolores was silent. 

“ He said you went into the library to meet some one, 
and he followed you. Then the ghost appeared. . . . One 
puts two and two together — and they usually make four. 
There was that miniature you wore round your neck. Prob- 
ably you’re wearing it now. You said you ‘ found ’ it — and 
I don’t doubt your word, though you doubted mine. If one’s 
had a certain bringing up, one doesn’t like to be rude. But 
there are various ways of ‘ finding ’ things. If I told Tilling- 
bourne about the miniature even he might begin to doubt 
the ghost theory, although he knows less of the history of 
this house — and the character of Lady Rosamund Vane-Eliot 
— than I do.” 

“ I thought you didn’t know Lady Rosamund,” said 
Dolores. 

“ I know as much about her as if we’d been intimate friends 
— or enemies. As for our meetings — ^we’ve never exchanged 
a word. But we have heard each other’s voices — and in a 
place and circumstances which fix the slightest details in 
one’s memory. It was during the trial of Lady Rosamund’s 
son Anthony for the murder of my cousin Elinor, my 
brother Paul’s wife. We were both called as witnesses — she 
and I.” 

‘‘ You were against him,” said Dolores. 

Nina Desmond threw her a strange look. ‘‘ I was neither 
for nor against. I spoke what I had seen and heard,” she 
answered. 


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CHAPTER THIRTY 


Dolores made no comment. But she was looking straight 
into the other’s eyes; and her hand, as if absentmindedly, 
fell on the head of the battered war-horse with which Anthony 
Vane-Eliot had played when a child. 

“ Who told you that I was against him? ” Lady Desmond 
asked angrily. 

“No one,” the girl answered. 

Nina gave an impatient exclamation. “ You choose to be 
enigmatic this morning,” she said. “ All this is beside the 
point. I came here to say certain things, and it will be 
better for you and everyone concerned that I say them with- 
out these stupid delays — for I have to go back to town this 
afternoon. I have my own interests in life, you must remem- 
ber; and I came to serve yours. The sooner we finish the 
better. I’m sorry that you don’t treat me as a friend, but 
it’s your affair, not mine, if you’re ungrateful. To go back 
to the miniature — and the ghost.” 

“Yes, let us go back to them,” said the girl. 

“ And to Lady Rosamund,” added Nina. “ I don’t believe 
in too many coincidences, any more than I believe in ghosts. 
And thanks to you, with your miniature and your confused 
tale about it — thanks to Tillingbourne and his ghost story, 
I suspected — no, I hnew by a flash of intuition, a thing 
which I might have guessed long ago. Anthony Vane-Eliot 
is not dead. Somehow — I don’t know how — but there might 
have been a dozen ways — ^Lady Rosamund saved him. Why, 
a clever and all-loving woman who fears nothing for her- 
self can outwit any man ! I could have saved him myself, 
if I’d loved him as she did.” 

“ Instead, because you hated him, you condemned him to 
death,” said Dolores. 

307 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


Lady Desmond’s eyes blazed, and a pulse began to beat 
m her white throat. “How dare you.?^ ” she cried. “You 
had better take care, if there’s anyone you wish to save.” 

“ Please go on,” the girl prompted her. 

“ I will go on. And it’s very fortunate for you that I’m 
not revengeful. I am certain that Anthony Vane-Eliot was 
smuggled alive out of his prison two days before the punish- 
ment he should have suffered. I believe that by his mother’s 
help he escaped to some other country in disguise, while 
everyone supposed him dead ! that now he has come back, and 
that you and he have met. He has been in this house. He 
gave you that miniature of himself. He was at the dance 
last night. Perhaps you were thoughtful enough to arrange 
that there should be fancy dress, so that he might come 
without fear of discovery. Because you’re an inexperienced, 
impressionable young girl he’s found it easy to make you 
believe in him and his innocence. If Tillingbourne hadn’t 
told me his ghost story I might not have been able to save 
you from the plot which I’m sure Anthony and his mother 
have concocted together. If they hadn’t between them got 
to the end of their resources. Lady Rosamund would never 
have let this house to strangers. But then, nobody except 
strangers would have taken it! Don’t you see, you’ve been 
a pawn in their game.?^ Perhaps you think that a man like 
Anthony Vane-Eliot — thirty-four, blase, tired of love and 
passion — would be caught like a boy, by your beaux-yeux? 
You’ve forgotten that you’re an heiress. What more natural 
than that Lady Rosamund should call her son out of hiding 
to angle for such a tempting goldfish You told me your- 
self that your mother knew nothing of the miniature or its 
original, and you begged me to keep your secret, lest she 

308 


CHAPTER THIRTY 


should think you ‘ silly and romantic.’ What wildly inade- 
quate words — if I’d only known then ! But it’s your ‘ silly 
romance ’ those two have traded on — the man and the woman. 
Look me in the eyes if you can and say that you haven’t 
promised Anthony Vane-Eliot to run away with him.?^” 

“ You’re not as clever as I thought you were, Lady Des- 
mond,” said Dolores, very pale, but with eyes luminous as 
stars. “ In not one single guess have you touched the truth.” 

“You fight for your hand — and your lover, more like a 
woman than a young girl,” answered Nina contemptuously. 
“ A few minutes ago you told me I lied — or as nearly as you 
dared. Now I tell you that I don’t believe what you say. 
You have an American game called poker, haven’t you, in 
which the trick is to ‘ bluff ’ ; but it’s useless to try that 
trick with me. I’m not angry with you, as I might be. I 
pity you. And I’m going to snatch you from the most 
ghastly fate that could befall a woman — marriage with an 
escaped criminal who must hide always under a false name, 
and in some land far from his own; a man without a coun- 
try, a man who would give you a hand red still with the 
blood of the only woman he ever really loved.” 

“What are you going to do.?^” asked Dolores, still very 
quiet, though her lips trembled as they formed the question. 

“ I’m going to tell the police that the murderer is alive, 
and either in this house or near it.” 

“ You’ve no proof — only your own suspicions,” said the 
pale girl. 

“ I have enough proof to set the police on his track and 
they’ll do all the rest. You can save him only by putting 
yourself in my hands. And to show you that I m merciful 
— that I’ve no personal enmity against Lady Rosamund or 

309 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


her son, no wish to bring further disgrace on a name which 
was once mine and is still my brother’s — ^I’ll be silent and 
give the man time to escape again, if you do exactly as I 
tell you. My only motive, I assure you, Dolores, is to pull 
you out of the fire into which you were ready to throw your- 
self — to spare your mother grief and shame unspeakable.” 

“ I’m waiting to hear the plan you have to propose,” 
Dolores said, in the gentle, controlled voice which was not 
quite steady. 

“ Tell Tillingbourne to-day that you’ll marry him ; and 
then let him get a special license. I’ll guarantee that he 
shall suggest that; for his dearest wish is to have you for 
his, to make sure of you as soon as possible.” 

“ For my ‘ heaux-yeux, ” quoted Dolores bitterly, “ or 
because I’m a goldfish.'^ ” 

“ Oh, Tillingbourne is an impetuous boy. He’s fallen head 
over ears in love with you — you must know that ! He mayn’t 
be rich, as men in his position go, but he isn’t so broken 
in pocket as to be a fortune-hunter like others. Heiresses 
greater than you, girls of the best families in England, 
would thank Heaven for him.” 

“ While a little nobody from America like me might be 
too stupid to appreciate the blessing. I know you think me 
very silly and unsophisticated. Lady Desmond, and so I was 
a few weeks ago. But I’ve changed lately — partly under 
your influence.” 

“ Then let me exert that influence upon you now for your 
own good.” 

“ I’ve outgrown it. And I know that you’re not disin- 
terested. As you said about me, you’re fighting for your 
own hand.” 


310 


CHAPTER THIRTY 


‘‘What do you mean? What possible motive could I have 
in trying to persuade you to marry Tillingbourne, except 
friendship for him, a kindness for you that’s hardly deserved 
— and a wish to save you from a tragic fate? ” 

“ You could have the wish to marry me in a hurry to a 
man who is nothing to you, for fear I might marry one 
whom you love and want yourself.” 

A wave of blood swept over Nina Desmond’s face. “ You’re 
intolerable — unspeakable ! ” she stammered. “ And I don’t 
understand what it is you insinuate. I understand only that 
you’re insulting.” 

“ It’s very likely that I may marry Captain de Grey,” 
said Dolores. 

Nina started as if she had been struck by a whip. 

“ He has never asked you. He never will ! ” she panted. 

“ He asked me this morning,” returned the girl. “ And 
I answered neither yes nor no, because I thought that 
you and I should have this talk, and I wanted to wait till 
afterwards.” 

“ People say you are like an angel, but really you are a 
devil,” said Nina. 

“ I don’t think I am that,” Dolores defended herself al- 
most doubtingly, “ but I had to fight you with your own 
weapons. I’m only a girl, and you are a woman, but I knew 
you’d have no mercy on me. I strengthened myself as well 
as I could.” 

“ Poor St. John ! ” sneered Lady Desmond. “ So you’ve 
made him a cat’s-paw to drag your chestnuts out of the fire? 
He’ll love you the better for that when he hears how clever 
you’ve been ! ” 

“ You can’t do me any harm with him,” Dolores warned 
311 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


her. “ I asked if he’d be willing to be only half engaged, 
and wait for me to make up my mind, and he said yes. I 
told him too that I didn’t love him, but that if we were 
ever really engaged, I would try very hard to. And that 
was the truth. If I marry him, I’ll do my best to make him 
happy so that he may never regret his loyalty and gen- 
erosity, for he has been loyal and generous. And I shall 
tell him the whole truth before our wedding day — if that 
day is to come.” 

“ Do you think he’d take you if he knew how you’d played 
fast and loose with him — for the sake of a murderer ” Nina 
Desmond flung at her. 

‘‘ He won’t call it playing fast and loose. There’s no use 
arguing about this, Lady Desmond, because nothing you 
can do or say will keep Captain de Grey from marrying 
me if I tell him that I’m willing to be his wife.” 

“ Why do you think I care whether you marry him or 
not.?” cried Nina, in a voice shrill with the stab of her 
anguish. 

“ Because — if you make me say it — because you love him 
and want him to love you. I think you want that more than 
anything else in the world, though once, a little while ago, 
I shouldn’t have dreamed of it, as he’s so much younger than 
you.” 

Lady Desmond’s eyes shone green, and she looked like a 
beautiful cat. 

“ Sweet innocent, to twit me with my age ! ” she hissed. 

‘‘ I don’t twit you,” said Dolores. “ I only say what is 
true. It doesn’t matter. I don’t suppose there are many 
years difference. And if there were it’s nothing to me, for 
Captain de Grey loves me, not you. Only, if I refuse him, 

sn 


CHAPTER THIRTY 


you’ll have your chance with him still, won’t you? Just the 
same chance you had when you were friends before he knew 
me.” 

‘‘ You believe I can’t take him from you — a child like 
you ! ” Nina stammered, her hands clenched so that their nails 
cut into her palms through the soft suede gloves. 

“ I know you can’t while I choose to keep him,” the girl 
replied with that terrible simplicity which daunted the ex- 
perienced woman. “ I should be sorry to see him marry 
you, if I gave him up, because I know you’re not worthy of 
him; but he’s a man and can take care of himself. I shall 
do nothing to keep him from you, or prejudice him against 
you, if I do give him up. But I won’t give him up unless 
you do the things I want you to do. I will marry him just 
as soon as he cares to take me.” 

‘‘ Your mother won’t allow it,” said Nina. ‘‘ I’ve told her 
that he isn’t free. That he compromised a married woman, 
and that by right he belongs to her ” 

“ Yes, I know. Mother repeated that story to me,” 
Dolores admitted, “ as much as she thought I ought to hear. 
But you see, it was after the night when you saw the 
miniature, and I understood you so much better then some- 
how. I felt you would do anything to obtain an object you 
had at heart. And when mother was telling me what you’d 
said about Captain de Grey, it came to me suddenly that 
you loved him and wanted to marry him yourself.” 

“ You don’t mince your words ! ” gasped Nina. 

‘‘No. It’s better not, isn’t it? We have to understand 
each other — and you said you were in a hurry because you 
had to go to town.” 

The girl’s downrightness was appalling to Nina Desmond. 
316 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


She saw this young creature, whom she had thought a doll 
to be played with, in a new light, and she feared the child 
she had intended to bend to her own purposes. 

“ Well,” she said harshly, “ what if I do love him.^^ There’s 
nothing to be ashamed of in that. It is coarse and unworthy 
to taunt me with it. You’re not fitted to be his wife. He’d 
tire of you in six months.” 

“ Perhaps,” Dolores argued. ‘‘ But we’ll both risk that.” 

“ If I promise to hold my tongue about Anthony Vane-i 
Eliot, and let the world go on believing him to be dead, 
will you throw St. John over.^* ” asked Nina, reluctant but 
helpless in the childish hands she had thought so weak. 

“ Not for a promise only, because you might break it^ 
I’m almost sure you would break it.” 

“ Oh! You have other conditions.^ ” 

“ One other. If you don’t want me to marry Captain de 
Grey you will have to tell how your sister-in-law, Elinor Vane, 
really died.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 


NINA THINKS OF A PLAN 

N ina DESMOND had refused to take the seat which 
Dolores had offered to her in the summerhouse, but 
suddenly strength went out of her and she sat down 
weakly. She felt curiously tired, almost faint, and the blood 
drummed dully in her temples. “ I didn’t sleep last night,” 
she said, moistening her lips. “ I’m beginning to feel the ef- 
fects now. I don’t think I can have understood what you 
said. It’s impossible ” 

Dolores repeated her words. “ You and Anthony himself 
were the only ones who knew the truth,” she added. 

“ The truth ! ” faltered Nina. “ Why, the truth was — 
what came out at his trial. He confessed. Didn’t you hear 
that — when you heard the story you wouldn’t let me 
tell.?” 

“ Yes, I heard that. But it didn’t make any difference 
to me for, of course, I knew he was innocent. He must have 
had a very strong reason for taking the guilt upon himself. 
I knew he was unselfish — so unselfish people called it a fault. 
But he had his mother to think of. And even if he didn’t 
believe that he’d be condemned to death — not knowing at 
first what man would judge him, and almost tell the jury to 
convict — he must have known that he’d be sent to prison 
for life. And if there hadn’t been some motive, he wouldn’t 
have brought such sorrow on Lady Rosamund. That’s why 

315 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


I’m sure that he sacrificed himself either for your sake, or 
Mrs. Vane’s. And you didn’t tell what you knew, because 
you hated him and wanted him to die.” 

“ You make me out a monster! ” cried Nina Desmond 

“I do think you were wicked — ^horribly wicked. I hope 
you’ve repented since, and if you have it will make it e .sier 
to speak the real truth at last. People would respect you 
the more for telling it. They would believe you’d ke )t it 
back because of some promise to Anthony. While you 
thought him dead you were bound to keep a promise, but 
if you found out that he was still alive, your duty would 
be to exonerate him. You could explain your motive then 
and now, in such a way that no one who wasn’t in the real 
secret would blame you for your part in the past. Oh, Lady 
Desmond, I’m not asking you to ruin your life an 1 spoil 
your future.” 

“The real secret \ What do you mean by that.?* ’ Nina 
caught at these words with fear in her eyes and voice. 

“ Why, there must have been a secret,” Dolores ai swered, 
still with that deadly simplicity and directness that fright- 
ened the older woman because they were new in her ex- 
perience. “ I’ve been thinking about it every minute since I 
heard the story, and wondering what it was. Of course, I 
realized at once that it was you who condemned Anthony, 
and I wondered what he could have done to make you hate 
him like that, for I knew you were supposed to ^ove him 
once.” 

“ I did love him,” Nina said, with a kind of dogged de- 
fiance. “ He was my first love. And if ever a woi an knew 
how to love, it is I. Do you still think that I swore his life 
away.'* ” 


316 


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 


“ Yes, I think it even more than before. You can hate as 
well as you can love. He didn’t care for you, and he did 
ca e for your sister-in-law, Elinor. You didn’t hke her when 
yoH were girls together. It must have been terrible for you 
thf she should have what you wanted more than you wanted 
an^ thing else. If you let Anthony see that you cared — told 
hin perhaps, for I think you’d be capable of that — and he 
was very sorry, but showed you there was no hope, it would 
be enough to make you hate him — a woman like you.” 

“ Oo you expect me to confess, with tears ” The ques- 
tion \vas a sneer, yet the woman was shaken. Dolores saw 
that, and hoped. 

‘‘ Nbt to me. And I don’t ask you to ‘ confess ’ to any- 
one. 1 only ask you to state things. There’s all the differ- 
ence ill that.” 

Nin i was -silent for a moment, looking at the girl. Then 
she sa 1, more quietly than she had spoken yet: “I should 
like to kill you. If I thought no one would ever know I had 
done it I would kill you, Dolores Eliot.” 

“ Ye , I suppose you would,” said the girl. ‘‘ Then you’d 
be quit safe, for I couldn’t come between you and Captain 
de Gre} , or make you do anything you didn’t want to do. 
But I’m not afraid.” 

“ Yoi needn’t be afraid, since everyone in the house knows 
I’m wit you, and at least two gardeners must have seen 
us come this way together. No, you needn’t be afraid. But 
if you 1 .ve any red blood in your veins, aren’t you sorry 
for me- Can’t you have any sympathy.? I’m not an ugly 
or unattractive woman, am 1 ? Many men have loved me. But 
the only two I’ve ever cared for have loved other women. 
I can’t give up St. John to you.” 

317 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ I’ve told you that I’ll give him up — whether to you or 
not, who knows? — ^but I’ll give him up if you will tell how 
Mrs. Vane died. When you’ve told that, it won’t matter who 
knows that Anthony’s alive.” 

A curious, snaky look came into the gray-green eyes that 
slanted a little upward. “ Very well. I’ll tell you everything,” 
Nina said, “ provided you’ll write a note to St. John while 
I’m with you, according to my dictation, and give it to me 
to send.” 

There was a warning of treachery in the eyes which once 
had fascinated the girl. But Dolores did not hesitate in an- 
swering. 

Shall we go indoors, then ? ” she asked. “ I must have 
paper and a pen and ink.” 

‘‘You’ll write the letter, then?” 

“ Yes, if you will do the same.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I mean, if you’ll put your story on paper.” 

“ What — you don’t trust me? ” 

“ No,” said Dolores. “ I think unless I had it all in your 
own writing that afterwards you’d deny any statement you 
made in words.” 

“ You speak like some sharp, suspicious old solicitor, 
rather than a young girl!” exclaimed Nina. 

“ Perhaps I inherit something from my father,” said 
Dolores thoughtfully, as if she were wondering at herself. 
“ I never knew I had it before ; but now, when I need to be 
cautious to keep you from tricking me, things seem to come 
into my mind as if a voice were speaking there. It may be 
my father’s voice.” 

The snaky light was gone from Nina’s eyes, and they were 

318 


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 

dull with disappointment. She had meant to deceive the girl, 
but she saw herself outwitted so far. 

“ Shall we go into the house.? ” Dolores asked again. 
“ We’ve finished our talk and said all we have to say, haven’t 
we.? So it’s only left for us to write.” 

“ Wait a minute. I want to think,” said Nina. And the 
girl sat still, looking at her with a clear gaze that seemed to 
see into her mind, following its workings. 

Lady Desmond felt that she could not bear her life if 
Dolores Eliot married St. John de Grey. Not to marry him 
herself, or at least to win him for her lover, would be ter- 
rible, but to see him the husband of another woman would 
be unendurable. 

Once before she had gone through such an experience. She 
had made every effort a woman can make, and some which 
no woman can afford to make, in the hope of capturing her 
cousin, Anthony Vane-Eliot. She had failed; and the girl, 
who had always been her rival, always stood in her way, had 
secured him, only to jilt him later. Then she had hoped 
again, for the hearts of some men can be caught in the re- 
bound; but she had not caught Anthony’s. It had already 
been cold to her, and she, who had power over others, had 
none over him. 

Through Anthony she had suffered such humiliation as 
she could not recall without tingling in every vein ; and his 
supposed death had not appeased her. Now, having leaped 
to the conclusion that a gigantic fraud had been perpetrated 
on the world, all the old desire to hurt him, to revenge her- 
self, came back, and until this child Dolores Eliot had cast 
a net round her, she had thought that she saw her way to 
do both. 


319 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


She had been glad when she heard that he was dead in 
prison, for death insured his silence. While he lived, she 
had feared that he might change his mind and save his 
neck by telling the real story of Elinor’s last moments. Be- 
sides, though she had wanted him to die, an execution was 
a disgrace to all those connected with him. 

Now, however, it seemed to her that she had vaguely 
suspected from the beginning. The thought of Anthony alive 
and a fugitive did not strike her as amazing, incredible — ■ 
and if through her he should be taken and dealt with for 
the second time by the law, she was not afraid, as she had 
once been, of what he might tell. His story would have been 
believed at first. It would not be believed now, if his testi- 
mony were unsupported by hers. The world would think that 
in desperation he had concocted a wild tale to save himself 
at any cost. 

She had not intended her part in unearthing his secret 
to come out. She would have written an anonymous letter to 
Scotland Yard, marshaling her facts so circumstantially that 
even a nameless communication must have created an im- 
pression. As Anthony would almost certainly kill himself 
rather than be retaken, the interests of his heir — ^her brother 
— would not be jeopardized. Altogether, she had felt safe in 
threatening Dolores Eliot, and in carrying out the threat. 
Also, it had been in her mind that, after she had got the girl 
out of the way by marrying her to Lord Tillingbourne, the 
anonymous letter might still be written. Even Dolores could 
never be sure then how Anthony had been betrayed. But now 
— all was changed, and she did not know what would be best 
for her to do. 

Only one thing was certain. She could not go through 

320 


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 

with St. John what she had gone through with Anthony. 
She loved St. John even more than she had ever loved the 
other, she thought, for she was older now and knew to the 
full what love was. Because she was older she had less re- 
silience, less power of recuperation after a blow. She could 
never learn to hate St. John as she had hated Anthony after 
her humiliation by him. Nothing that St. John could do, she 
felt, could make her love him less. 

Once she had brought herself to hate Anthony Vane-Eliot, 
everything had been easy enough. She had enjoyed finding 
ways of hurting him, of doing him harm. She had often 
been able to torture him through Elinor, and through Paul, 
whom he had so loved. Then, the last coup of all had been 
her greatest triumph. She had worked up to it, perhaps, 
but only half consciously, not guessing in what manner it 
was destined to come. And the end had been inspiration, 
neither more nor less. 

In one moment she had gained a revenge which repaid her 
for years of torture, and never had she regretted what she 
had done then, for the tragic publicity of the affair had not 
hurt her prestige. She had been already established as a 
beauty and a popular favorite in the only set that mattered, 
and so she had become a heroine rather than an outcast from 
society. Then she had shortly after married a rich man, and 
the old scandal in the Vane family had ceased eventually to 
be associated with her name. Now, she was afraid of no one’s 
opinion — no one’s, except St. John de Grey’s; and his was 
everything. 

What could she do to propitiate this terrible girl, and 
at the same time keep St. John’s friendship so intact that 
later it might turn to love.?^ 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


The problem could not be thought out in a moment; but 
Dolores was patient, with a patience which to Nina Des- 
mond’s desperation seemed utterly devoid of mercy. 

If she did the thing that Dolores asked of her — if she 
wrote the letter which would establish Anthony’s innocence, 
could she word it in such a way as to protect herself? 

Hastily she reviewed the evidence she had given at the 
trial, so far as she could recall it after more than nine 
years. 

Fortimately she had been ill, and had been spared as much 
as possible by everyone. Her cross-examination had not 
been severe. Most of her answers had been monosyllables ; 
“ Yes,” or ‘‘ No.” Of course, if she wrote now, she need not 
tell all the truth. She would not be obliged to say how by 
that wonderful inspiration of hers — she had incited Anthony 
to the course he had chosen to take. No one need ever know 
that if it had not been for her promptings he would prob- 
ably have told the whole truth, bluntly, when Paul came 
into the room and found his wife dying. All that she must 
confess would be a loyalty, mistaken perhaps, which had 
led her to bear out Anthony’s own version of Elinor’s death. 

As she meditated, sentences began to form themselves in 
Nina’s mind. She could be eloquent on paper, as she knew 
well, though there was one notable instance when that elo- 
quence had failed. Once she had written to Anthony, after 
a scene between them which he had misunderstood, and told 
him in words how she loved him — loved him as no other 
woman could love. And he had replied gently, kindly, that 
she was and always would be his dear cousin. He could not 
believe that she really thought of him in any other way. 
After that answer she had begun to hate him, and had hated 


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE 


him more every day that passed, until he was dead — as she 
supposed — and the shame he had put upon her forgotten. 

That was her only failure, and she put it out of her head 
now, as she thought of the letter she might write. Yes, such 
a letter would do her more good than harm, she told herself — 
and as for Anthony, he might not live long to trouble her 
peace, after all. 

In writing, she would admit that she now knew him to 
be still alive; that she had just heard of his existence. But 
after Dolores had given the promised note for St. John de 
Grey, and it had been safely delivered, she could secretly 
tell the police that Anthony Vane-Eliot was hiding in the 
neighborhood — perhaps even at Queen’s Quadrangles. Once 
such a letter as she meant Dolores to write was in St. John’s 
hands, he would not want to marry the girl, even if Dolores 
tried to win him back. Therefore, if Anthony Vane-Eliot 
were found, and should kill himself while ignorant that his 
innocence could be proved, Dolores would be unable to do 
her any harm. She could not be certain that Lady Des- 
mond had betrayed Anthony. Tillingbourne might have 
done that, or some one else who had recognized him on the 
night of the ball. 

This was an exciting thought to Nina, for she hated Do- 
lores Eliot now almost as much as she hated Anthony. She 
had come to Queen’s Quadrangles at St. John’s request, 
prepared to dislike and be jealous of the American girl 
whom he wanted her to meet. From the first she had intended 
to separate them, instead of helping to bring them together 
as St. John expected, and she had done everything in her 
power to further that result without allowing St. John to 
suspect treachery. But to-day was the climax. She felt an 

32S 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


active desire to hurt Dolores, just as she had felt toward 
Anthony after his letter to her long ago. Nina Desmond told 
herself that if she could part the girl from St. John, and 
by the same stroke destroy the man Dolores fought for, 
while pretending to save him, she would have only one thing 
for which to wish — St. John’s love. That might be difficult 
to win, but with the American girl out of the way, she be- 
lieved that she could win it. 

Her face cleared as she finished this chain of argument, 
and she rose, drawing a long breath. “ Yes, we wiU go into 
the house and write,” she said. “ I’ve been thinking out those 
two letters ; the one you are to give me for St. John, and 
the one I’m to give you — to use as you wish.” 


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 


THE LETTERS 

T he two figures moving side by side toward the house 
looked very charming together; and an artist might 
have painted the woman in black and the girl in white, 
calling his picture “ Confidences,” or “ Friendship.” He 
would have believed that he had divined the true spirit of 
the pretty partnership ; and even had he been near enough 
to catch the expression of the faces, he would have seen 
nothing to disturb his pleasant theory. 

Dolores took Lady Desmond upstairs to a sitting room 
which she used as her own. Frances came there sometimes, 
but she was not likely to come this morning. She had guests 
staying in the house, and when they chose to appear she 
would sit with them in one of the drawing-rooms, or on the 
west terrace, till time for luncheon. 

The girl expected Lady Desmond to ask for the letter to 
St. John before she put into writing the statement she had 
promised ; but to her surprise Nina volunteered to write first. 

Hearing that my cousin Anthony Vane-Eliot is not 
dead, and is in danger of being arrested,” she began, ‘‘ I feel 
it my duty to save him from so terrible a danger, even though 
I save him in spite of himself. 

“When he confessed that he had shot and killed my 
sister-in-law, Elinor Vane, I did not contradict him be- 
cause, in the few minutes that passed after the shooting, 

S25 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


before my brother Paul came into the room, he made me 
swear not to tell what had really taken place. At the time, 
it seemed to me very noble that he should sacrifice himself 
on the altar of his friendship for my brother, and I thought 
the only thing possible for me to do in the circumstances was 
to stand by him. 

“ I did not believe then that he would be condemned to 
death. I thought, and he must have thought, that Elinor’s 
death would be considered a crime of passion committed in 
anger mad enough to pass for temporary insanity. Indeed, 
that was the line of the defense; and when, to everyone’s 
astonishment he was condemned to be hanged for Elinor’s 
murder, I dared not unsay what I had said at his bidding. 

“ Now, I see that I was wrong from the first. I should 
never have made such a promise as he asked of me; but we 
were cousins, and had always been great friends. If he had 
really died, perhaps I might have let the dead past bury its 
dead, and kept silence for always, though I have often re- 
pented my mistake. But now that he has been seen, alive and 
little changed, in his old home, where he must have come 
to visit the devoted mother who saved his life, there remains 
no longer any doubt in my mind as to what I ought to do. 

“ I cannot be bound by an old, worn-out promise while he 
is in danger of being found, arrested, and forced to suffer 
the shameful death he escaped nine years ago. The thing I 
must do is to tell everything exactly as it happened. 

“ It was no secret that Anthony Vane-Eliot and Elinor 
Vane had a boy and girl love affair while she was living with 
his mother at Queen’s Quadrangles, and I thought it foolish 
that the story should be kept from my brother Paul when 
he came back from St. Petersburg and proposed to Elinor. 

326 


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 

But Elinor was afraid to let him know, and Anthony gave 
her her way. 

“ I think she never loved my brother, and on his side it 
was more admiration than real love. On hers, the marriage 
was one of ambition. Soon she realized the mistake she had 
made, and when Paul brought her home from Russia to Lon- 
don she fell more deeply in love with Anthony than ever. By 
that time, too, Paul had begun to feel that she was a failure 
as a wife, and Paul could never bear failures. 

‘‘ Anthony had tired of Elinor meanwhile, or else he was 
too loyal to my brother, his best friend, to think of her in 
the old way after her marriage, believing that Paul wor- 
shiped her. But Anthony never really understood Paul. 
Though he hadn’t been told of that love story, he had 
guessed. He trusted Anthony fully, however, and when he 
had been married a year, he was too sick of Elinor’s whims 
and moods to care what she did, if only it were nothing 
to bring dishonor on his name. All she could do to win 
Anthony back she did that season in London, and his reserve 
made her more anxious to have him at her feet. Paul watched, 
in his quiet, cynical way, while Anthony thought he sus- 
pected nothing. 

‘‘ Elinor was a woman who wanted to be supreme with 
every man, and it nearly drove her mad to feel that she had 
lost power over Anthony. She could not sleep at night, and 
found no pleasure in anything, though rather than let her- 
self think, she tried to find some amusement for every minute. 
To keep herself up through the strain, she began to take 
drugs ; and after that she was no longer a really sane woman. 

“ On the night of her death, Paul had been away, and 
Anthony had taken Elinor and me to a ball. She flirted a 

S27 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


good deal with a young Roman count attached to the Italian 
Legation — a handsome but unscrupulous man, who had the 
name of boasting about his conquests. Instead of taking the 
dance he had with Elinor, Anthony sat it out with her, and 
scolded her for imprudence. I didn’t hear what passed be- 
tween them then, but Elinor referred to it in the carriage, 
going home. She did not care what she said before me, for 
she was past minding trifles ; and when Anthony would have 
soothed her, she burst into hysterical sobbing. 

‘‘ She was so upset that he was obliged to come into the 
house with us, though he had meant to leave us at the door. 
He and I together got Elinor into the library, without wak- 
ing any of the servants, whom she had told not to sit up. 
She was still crying, but controlled herself enough to say 
that she wished me to leave the room: she wanted to talk to 
Anthony alone. 

‘‘ I would have obeyed, but Anthony wouldn’t let me go. 
He insisted that I should stay, and said to Elinor — ^who was 
furious — that it was for her sake and Paul’s. That she was 
not herself, and that if she were, she would realize that he 
mustn’t stop with her alone, at three o’clock at night, when 
her husband was away from home. There would be no harm, 
of course, but he thought one of the footmen was inclined 
to spy, and he would not allow her to run risks for him. 

“ Then she sobbed : ‘ If you loved me you wouldn’t think 
of such stupid things,’ and he answered that he did love her 
as his cousin and Paul’s wife too dearly to do her harm. 
He wanted to go, and leave me to take care of her, after he 
had said to me that she was not responsible in such a mood 
for her words or acts. But she ran and locked the door, and 
threw the key out of the shut window, breaking the glass. 

328 


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 

“ Then, suddenly, she changed, and sobbed that she knew 
he did love her, just as he always had. It was only that he 
was afraid of Paul, or he would take her away, and end their 
misery. This made Anthony angry, and he told her very 
sternly that he did not care for her any more as he had 
when she was a girl, that she must not believe it for a moment. 
He hoped to calm her by his coldness, as one often can an 
hysterical woman, but he made a mistake with Elinor. She 
ran to Paul’s desk, and pulling out a drawer seized a re- 
volver which was kept there, and shot herself in the breast. 

“ She fell, and Anthony knelt beside her, pushing the re- 
volver away from her side, so that it looked as if she couldn’t 
have used it on herself. 

“ ‘ Paul mustn’t know,’ were the first words he said. ‘ It 
would kill him.’ 

“‘What shall we do.?’ I asked. 

“ ‘ I will say that because I was mad, and loved her, and 
she would have nothing to do with me — ^because she fiirted 
a little with others, and I was jealous, I shot her. And you 
must say the same,’ he told me. 

“ At first I refused, but he said that if I wouldn’t promise 
he would kill himself too, and rather than see a second hor- 
ror, after what I had just gone through, I would have prom- 
ised anything. 

“ A few minutes after Paul — ^who had come home un- 
expectedly — broke open the door, and the servants followed 
him in. 

“ Elinor wasn’t quite dead, and whether she meant to make 
Anthony appear guilty or not, she gasped out that it was 
liis fault. After that, the part he chose to play was easy 
enough. And what could I do but keep my word.?” 

S29 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


When she had written thus far, Lady Desmond read over 
the closely filled pages, and decided that she had nothing to 
change, nothing to add. The liberties she had here and there 
taken with the truth seemed to her to be more ‘credible and 
creditable than the truth itself. So putting together the three 
sheets of paper which contained her statement, she handed 
them to Dolores. 

“ Read what I’ve written and tell me if that’s what you 
want,” she said brusquely. 

Dolores read, slowly, carefully, dwelling on each sentence; 
and when she had finished, did not speak. 

“Well.?” Nina prompted her. “Why don’t you say 
something.? Now you know the whole truth.” 

“Yes, I know the truth, but not because you’ve written 
it all,” said the girl. “ I’ve had to read between the lines, 
and I think I see what is there. I see you — always you — 
interfering between your brother and his wife. I hear you 
pretending to sympathize with her against him, so that she 
came to confide in you at last. I hear you telling her that 
Anthony really loved her better than ever; that it was only 
his fear of Paul — his fear, never his friendship ! — which made 
him seem cold to her. Then, at the end, I hear you, not 
Anthony, saying ,that your brother mustn’t be told the 
truth. I hear you putting the idea into his head that, if Paul 
knew his wife had killed herself, because she loved another 
man, his heart would be broken. Just putting that idea in 
his head would have been enough to goad him on to the ex- 
treme self-sacrifice. But it would be a woman’s thought, to 
begin with.” 

Nina pressed her lips together to hide their twitching, and 
forced herself to look the girl in the eyes. 

330 


CHAPTER THJRTY-TWO 

“ Do you want me to accuse myself of these things in 
writing? ” she asked icily. “ Because I will not.” 

“No, I don’t want that. It would be more than I could 
expect,” answered Dolores. “ But I wanted to tell you that 
I knew,^^ 

“Anthony has given you his version of the story, no 
doubt,” said Nina. 

“ No, he has told me nothing of the past,” the girl as- 
sured her. “ He has never even told his mother that he was 
innocent of murder: he has never explained anything to a 
living soul. But Lady Rosamund knew, without his telling, 
just as I knew.” 

“ When a woman loves a man she believes him an angel,” 
Nina sneered. 

Dolores made no retort. She would not deny her love for 
Anthony Vane-Eliot, and if she had, Nina Desmond would 
not have believed her. But the girl had no hope of personal 
happiness in her love. A man who had so worshiped a 
woman that he had been ready to give his life and his honor 
to shield her reputation, could never love again. Much less, 
Dolores thought, could he love an ignorant, insignificant 
child while his heart was haunted with memories of a ra- 
diant beauty. 

Dolores thought that she knew now who was the original 
of the portrait in the lost court. It could be no other than 
the dead Elinor Vane, for whose sake her lover had be- 
come a ghost. Probably he had painted the picture when 
Elinor was a girl, staying at Queen’s Quadrangles ; and 
afterwards, when a prisoner in the lost court, he had begged 
Lady Rosamund to lighten his captivity by giving him the 
portrait. 


331 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


His wife to have it near him, in spite of all, showed clearly 
that Anthony had never ceased to love his dead cousin, yet 
there was no room in Dolores’s heart for an emotion so mean 
as jealousy. 

“ Now for the letter you are to write St. John,” said 
Nina, recovering herself. “ Remember, you agreed to do it 
at my dictation.” 

“ I remember,” returned Dolores. “ But he has deserved 
better of me than to be used in this way. I would have 
married him if you hadn’t consented to save Anthony. He 
should have known the truth; and yet, I think I could have 
made him happy. I should not like to say anything cruel to 
him in the letter.” 

“ Don’t be afraid that I shall be too exacting,” said Nina, 
with a smile that was not sweet. “ Sit down, and begin to 
write.” 

Dolores sat at the desk where Nina had written, and took 
the same pen. Then, as if on a sudden thought, she threw 
it aside and chose another. Neither spoke, but Lady Des- 
mond understood. 

“ Dear Captain de Grey,” the elder woman dictated, and 
Dolores’s pen followed her words. “ This morning I half 
promised to marry you. (That’s true, isn’t it.? — ^Yes. You 
said so.) When I told you that, it was because I was very 
unhappy about another man, whom I really love. (You must 
write those words — just those, or I take back my statement, 
tear it in pieces, and deny having made it.) 

“Now I am not quite as unhappy as I was about that 
other man. And I will tell you frankly, lest you think too 
highly of me, that I have used my half-engagement with you 
to forward my interests with him. This sounds mean, but 
it is true. And I had it in my mind to do that very thing 


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 

when I let you believe I might some day promise to marry 
you. If I had married you, it would only have been because 
there was no hope of my succeeding with some one else. (Yes 
— write that too!) But now I have made up my mind finally 
that I can never be your wife, whatever happens. And hav- 
ing told you all this, I beg — and believe — that you will not 
distress me by asking again. Also, I shall be glad if you 
will go away from your sister’s for a time, so that I need 
have no fear of our meeting. By and by, it may be that I 
can bear to see you, but not now. And if you want to do 
a thing which will bring me pleasure, you will fall in love 
with some woman who has a heart to give you. 

“ Yours sincerely, 

“ Dolores Eliot.” 

“ It’s a horrible letter ! ” exclaimed the girl, as she wrote 
her name. “ I can’t bear to have it go to him. He is so good 
— so kind.” 

“ Did I like writing the things you forced me to write ? 
It’s time I had a hand in the game. And a letter would be 
of no use to me, if it left him loving you at the end. This 
will cure him forever.” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Dolores. “ After reading that, he can have 
nothing to regret in losing me. Perhaps you’re right — for 
his sake as well as your own.” 

“ I know that I’m right ! ” exclaimed Nina, impatiently. 
‘‘ Now address the letter and give it to me. I’ll have it 
sent by a messenger so that there may be no delay.” 

“ Not yet,” said Dolores. “ You haven’t signed your state- 
ment — oh, I don’t want you to do it now. I don’t know much 
about law ; but I’m sure it ought to be signed before some 

legal person, and sworn to ” 

Oh, if it comes to that, it should be done before a Com- 

633 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


missioner of Oaths,” Nina answered, with veiled contempt. 

“ That shall be later ” 

‘‘ I won’t give you my letter till it has been done.” 

Lady Desmond stifled her anger. She wanted the letter at 
once, and must have it. “ Very well,” she said, “ ring and 
have your chauffeur bring your motor immediately. I’ll go 
with you in it to Clere, to old Mr. Eastwood’s office. If we’re 
quick, we’ll catch him before he gets away for his luncheon. , 
You see — I’m quite willing to do all you ask. Then when 
it’s done ” 

“ I will give you the letter, and you can send it by mes- 
senger to Captain de Grey,” said Dolores, pressing the elec- 
tric bell. 

In less than ten minutes the car was at the door, and 
the woman in black and the girl in white were spinning into 
Clere. 

If Mr. Eastwood was surprised at the business he was 
called upon to transact for Lady Desmond and Miss Eliot, 
he kept the feeling to himself, for it was a point of pride 
with the old gentleman that never in his life had he shown 
an emotion. 

Nina chose to drive back with Dolores, saying that she 
would like to walk through the park to the duke’s ; but, 
free of the girl’s supervision at last, and with the letter ad- 
dressed to St. John in her hand, she called one of the new 
young gardeners to her. 

To him she said that Miss Eliot had asked her to give 
him that letter, and to bid him take it to the Vicarage at 
once. Miss Eliot sent him five shillings, and requested that 
he would mention the errand to nobody. 

So the young man went off smiling discreetly, and Lady 

334 


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 


Desmond followed at a distance. She had come on foot from 
Tillingbourne Court, and returning there could easily keep 
the gardener in sight. Then, by walking on a little further, 
she could watch him go in at the Vicarage gates. Not that 
there was any danger that he would play her false; but in 
such a matter she could not make too sure. 

When she had seen what she wished to see, she turned 
back and hurried through one of the imposing stone gate- 
ways at Tillingbourne Court. Walking as briskly as she 
dared, she met face to face the man she had been on her way 
to find. 

This was a guest of the Duke of Bridgewater, a somewhat 
famous person who had timed his coming for this morn- 
ing, that he might arrive after the dance at Queen’s Quad- 
rangles, of which he had heard, and wished to hear no more. 
He liked the duke — this famous man — ^but he hated Queen’s 
Quadrangles so intensely that when visiting at Tillingbourne 
Court he always turned his head away if it were necessary 
to pass the gates of that detested place. 

Nina had known that this man was expected to-day, and 
he had been in her thoughts when she decided to play Do- 
lores Eliot a last trick. She had been hurrying home to 
find him, and here he was, as if waiting to meet her, half way 
down the avenue. He had thus saved her a good quarter of 
an hour; and every minute was valuable now, if her plan 
had a chance of success. If everything she hoped for might 
arrange itself before Dolores could have speech with An- 
thony, the letter she had reluctantly written might as well 
be so much waste ^aper. 

This man it was who had once been called the ‘‘ hanging 
judge,” and whose charge to the jury had come near hang- 

3S5 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


ing Anthony Vane-Eliot. Since then he had changed some- 
what, as he grew older, but he still believed Anthony guilty, 
and still thought he had richly deserved the punishment 
prevented by death. 

Nina gave him her most glorious smile, and said how glad 
she was to see him. Then, as soon as she could, she brought 
the conversation round to the ball of last night. 

“ Don’t talk of it ! ” exclaimed the great man. “ I can’t 
bear to think of that house, or anyone there. You know how 
I admired your sister-in-law, poor, beautiful Mrs. Vane ; and 
all the circumstances which ” 

“ Oh, I know,” broke in Nina, with soft sympathy. “ And 
I wouldn’t have spoken, only — a strange thing has hap- 
pened. I feel I daren’t keep it to myself. If I tell you, and 
you think yourself bound in duty to take any action, promise 
me that you’ll never breathe that you had it from me. He was 
my cousin. But then poor Elinor was my sister-in-law.” 

“He!” repeated the “hanging judge,” his heavy face 
flushing. 

“ Anthony Vane-Eliot. He is not dead. He was seen at 
the fancy dress ball last night, disguised of course, but un- 
mistakable. I always wondered if Lady Rosamund hadn’t had 
a hand in his death. Now, one does see her hand. Only — it 
wasnH death she gave him.” 

“ You’re sure of what you say.? ” 

“ Sure. He must be somewhere in the neighborhood. Or 
— you know there’s a story of secret hiding places at Queen’s 
Quadrangles. Lady Rosamund may be keeping him in the 
house for a day or two, till he can get clear away — wherever 
it is that he lives.” 

“ He mustn’t be allowed to go,” said the famous man, 

666 


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO 

“ He is an escaped murderer. Years make no difference. This 
is an affair for the police, and they must be notified at once ; 
but you may rely upon me to keep your name out of the 
business.” 

“ Oh, I thank you,” murmured Nina. “ It has been a pain 
to speak. Don’t let me detain you. This has made me sad — 
and afraid. I shall be better left alone.” 

“ He will kill himself — he will kill himself ! ” she whispered, 
when she had been taken at her word. “ If only they get 
at him in time ! ” 

Then her thoughts flashed to St. John de Grey, and she 
wondered how he had borne the blow. There was no ques- 
tion but he would despise Dolores. And for the rest — there 
was hope. 

“ I wish I could see what he is doing at this moment,” she 
thought. “ I wish I could read his mind toward me.” 

If her wish }iad been granted, she would have seen St. J ohn 
writing a telegram, while his valet packed his luggage. She 
would have read in his mind no thought of her whatever, but 
an intention to apply for foreign service which would take 
him out of her reach for years. And she might have read 
also what was still in his heart for Dolores Eliot. 

“ Poor child,” Lady Desmond might have heard him say 
to himself ; “ poor child, she’s trying to make it easier for 
me to lose her, by putting her refusal in such a way. But 
I know she wasn’t playing with me like that, I know she’s 
true and sweet, and if she does love some other man, I hope 
to God he’s worthy of her.” 


337 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 


HE LOVES YOU 

I T was nearly two o’clock when Nina Desmond left Queen’s 
Quadrangles, and Frances met Dolores as the girl was 
on her way to find Lady Rosamund. “ Dearest, where 
are you flying to in such a hurry ? ” she asked gayly . “ Don’t 
you know we’ve been called to luncheon ? ” 

“ I don’t want any luncheon,” said Dolores. Mother, 
dear, please make my excuses to everybody.” 

But Frances was not to be persuaded. She had six guests, 
she reminded her daughter, and after all the fatigue of last 
night, which had left her with a headache, she was not 
equal to getting through a meal without Dolores’s help. 
Besides, the girl must eat. It was absurd to say that she 
didn’t want luncheon. 

“ I have to see Lady Rosamund, and take her an important 
message,” Dolores insisted. 

“ I happen to know that Lady Rosamund is busy just 
now,” said Frances. “ I wanted to see her myself, to thank 
her for the beautiful decorations which she designed and 
arranged for us last night, but she sent word by Soames, 
when I asked for her, about ten minutes ago, that she would 
be much occupied for an hour, and hoped I wouldn’t mind 
waiting until after luncheon.” 

Dolores was sure this answer meant that Lady Rosamund 
was going to the lost court. By this time she must be there, 

338 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 


and until she came back it would be useless to try and reach 
her. Reflecting thus, Dolores consented to help play hostess. 
But she could hardly wait till luncheon was over to go to 
Lady Rosamund’s door and knock. 

She suspected no further treachery from Nina. Indeed, 
with the signed statement she had in her possession, she did 
not see how a trick would be possible. But she was impatient 
to tell Lady Rosamund everything that had happened, to 
show her what Nina had written, and to ask what might 
safely be said to the prisoner in the lost court. 

He had never told the real story of Elinor Vane’s death, 
even to his mother. Would he be willing (now that all these 
years had passed, and Paul was married again) to be freed 
by Nina’s testimony 

Dolores thought his decision would depend partly upon 
the part that Nina had originally played in the tragedy. If, 
after all, it had been Anthony’s idea to keep the secret and 
bear the stain of guilt, perhaps he would prefer his prison 
to freedom. But if Nina had urged him to the course he 
had taken, begging him to spare Paul at any cost, then, 
Dolores hoped, Anthony would now think of his mother and 
of himself. 

He had lived this hidden life, because he was bearing the 
burden of crime ; but if the burden could be removed, Dolores 
saw no obstacle to his appearing once more in the world. 
If he did not wish to meet his old friends, he might live 
abroad, at peace in the thought that recognition would 
bring no danger. 

These things were in the girl’s mind, but she must know 
how far his mother would agree with her, before telling An- 
thony that his prison doors were open. 

3S9 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


It was close upon three o’clock when she went at last to 
Lady Rosamund’s sitting room, and her rap was timid, be- 
cause she had never knocked there until now. 

Instantly the door opened, and Lady Rosamund’s face 
lighted at sight of the girl. 

“ I’ve just come from Aim,” she said. ‘‘ I was wishing for 
you. Soames told me when Lady Desmond went, but I knew 
you would have to stay with your mother and her guests. 
Now you will go to him.^ ” 

“ First, I have something to tell you,” said Dolores. And 
her face added that it was something of importance. 

Lady Rosamund drew her into the room, which the girl 
had never seen before, since the first night when she and her 
mother came to look at the house. The glimpse she had had 
then showed her that it was one of the most poorly furnished 
at Queen’s Quadrangles ; and Lady Rosamund had done 
nothing by way of decoration, except to scatter flowers and 
books about. 

“ Have you anything to say that will disappoint or grieve 
me ? ” she asked, with a wistfulness that was pathetic after 
the storm of last night. 

“ I hope it will make you happier,” Dolores answered. 
Then, quietly, she told as much of the scene between herself 
and Nina Desmond as need be known, and at the end showed 
the letter. 

Lady Rosamund read it through eagerly, her color rising. 
‘‘ I knew, I always knew, in my heart ! ” she exclaimed, her 
eyes bright as if with the lost fire of youth. “ Though, 
sometimes, I have dreamed that Nina Desmond was a mur- 
deress, and Anthony was shielding her. I’m glad it was not 
that. I never felt that it could be, really, for Anthony didn’t 

340 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 


love Nina, whereas once he dearly loved Elinor, and always 
worshiped Paul. Now, you have saved him.” 

“ Have I ? ” asked Dolores. “ Will he let himself be 
saved.? ” 

“ I think so. Oh, he must — for Paul has married again and 
forgotten Elinor. Besides, Paul didn’t care for her as An- 
thony thought he did. Nina Desmond says, ‘ he watched.'^ 
If that is true, he must have suspected the truth, or some- 
thing like it, and let Anthony sacrifice himself without pro- 
testing. I used to say to Anthony that perhaps Paul always 
guessed — ^but he would not believe that. Now, I think he 
will; and it will make all the difference. Besides, there can 
be another motive for him to exchange life for a living death 
— if you will give him that motive. If you’re brave enough — 
if you care enough.” 

‘‘ I — give him a motive .? ” the girl faltered. 

‘‘ He loves you. I’m selfish for him, yet even I would not 
have told you that — though I was tempted this morning — 
if it hadn’t been for this letter, which means salvation. Nina 
will have to stand by her sworn statement. One can see by 
the way she has written, saving herself in every way, that 
she means to stand by it even before you took her to Mr. 
Eastwood. And if Anthony will tell the true story too — 
there can be happiness for him. But should he choose to save 
himself, I don’t think he would speak of love to you. He 
wouldn’t think it fair. He would say : ‘ She has everything 
before her. At best, I am a marked man.’ That is why I 
asked if you cared enough, and were hrave enough.” 

‘‘ You are mistaken,” Dolores stammered. “ He doesn’t 
love me — in the way you mean. Only as a little friend — who 
has helped him to make the hours pass.” 

341 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 


“ He told me himself that he loved you, and that was the 
reason he sent you away. He dared not see you, because he 
feared that his love would be stronger than his resolve.” 

“ Oh ! ” cried Dolores, and covered her face with her hands. 
“ If I thought — if I dared think ” 

“ I tell you, child, it is true. He did not mean you to 
know — ^but now, it’s different. I can betray him without 
treachery. Don’t you believe me? If you were older, you 
would have guessed why he sent you from him.” 

“ But he loved his cousin enough to die for her.” 

“ No. It was his love for Paul, not for Elinor, that made 
him ready to sacrifice all. Didn’t you understand that ? ” 

“ Partly. But I ” 

“ He saw Elinor as she really was when she threw him 
over for Paul. That treason came near to killing his love 
for her — which after all was only a boy’s first love. And 
her conduct in London killed it completely. That I know. 
So much he has told me.” 

“ Yet he keeps her picture, and I have seen him look up 
at it — oh, with the tenderest, most faithful light in his eyes.” 

“ Her picture? He has none.” 

“ The beautiful portrait on the wall of the bookroom ” 

“ Why — ” and Lady Rosamund laughed faintly — “ that is 
my portrait. I knew I had changed, but I didn’t realize how 
much.” 

The girl’s face lit up with a new radiance. “ I did think 
it like you,” she said, “ when I first saw it, but the face looked 
so happy. I couldn’t imagine you as happy as that; so by 
and by I lost the feeling of the likeness. It was stupid of 
me. But I’m glad — glad. I couldn’t bear to think he loved 
her still. It seemed terrible.” 

sn 


CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE 

“ It would be terrible. And — is it terrible that he should 
love you? ” 

It seems too heavenly to be true,” the girl answered, 
looking very shy and young. 

“ You love him, too? ” 

Love him? O Lady Rosamund, I’ve been almost dying 
of love for him, for weeks. I thought perhaps he had seen, 
and that was why he felt it better for me not to come to him 
any more.” 

He loves you with a man’s love, not a boy’s. Such a love 
as few men can feel. For all these weeks you have been his 
world. If you are brave enough, you can make him tell you 
of his love, though even this letter would not induce him to 
speak — unless he knewJ^^ 

“ Unless he knew — what ? ” 

“ That you love him.” 

‘‘ Doesn’t he guess — at all ? ” 

“ No. He thinks too poorly of himself. He says that to 
you he is a ghost, or at best the hero of a fairy tale.” 

“ He is everything to me.” 

If he were free, would your mother consent to your 
marrying him? ” 

‘‘ She’d consent to anything that would make me happy,” 
said Dolores, with joyous confidence. 

And then a knock came at the door — quick, agitated; a 
tell-tale knock, which set the girl’s heart beating. She knew 
that something had happened. 


343 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 


THE DECISION 

I T is Soames,” said Lady Rosamund, and opened the door. 
The old butler was ghastly, all his sleek decorousness 
of ancient-family servant slipped from him like a torn 
garment. 

“ My lady ! my lady ! ” he gasped ; and then, seeing Do- 
lores, stopped, his gaze wild and thwarted. 

“ Speak before her. She is in my whole confidence,” his 
mistress said. 

“ Two policemen are here, with an order to search the 
house for — for ” 

Lady Rosamund’s soft face hardened. Instantly she was 
strong and resourceful; and in a flash much was clear to 
Dolores that never had been clear before. 

“ Have they begun ? ” she asked of Soames. 

“ Yes, my lady. Nothing I could say would stop them. 
What is to become of ” 

“ Be quiet,” said Lady Rosamund. “ You need have no 
fear. Let them search. I will go to them now.” Then, turn- 
ing to Dolores : “ Is this Lady Desmond’s work, or has Lord 
Tillingbourne, who saw him last night, set the dogs on us.? ” 
‘‘ Lady Desmond will want us to think that. But I’m sure 
it is she,” answered Dolores. 

“ I believe you’re right. Not that it matters, for she 
must stand by her statement. I will go now to these men, 
and I will show the letter. But you — ^you must run quickly 

344 


CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR 

to Anthony. Tell him what Nina Desmond has written — 
especially what she says about Paul, Then — if you are brave, 
as I said — ^you can make him save himself. You can do far 
more with him than I can, because of what I told you. Go 
now into the priest’s wardrobe and lock the door on the 
inside. On the east wall are hooks for hanging clothes. 
Turn the third one to the left downward, as if it were a 
door handle, and a narrow piece of the wainscoting will open 
as it does in the corridor. When you have opened it, un- 
lock the outside door, that the men may suspect nothing 
if they come that way, and slide the panel shut behind you. 
You’ll find that easy. For the rest — ^you know what to do: 
and God be with you in doing it.” 

Dolores flew to the door, and looked out, up the length 
of the long gallery. No one was in sight, and she darted 
across to the door of the priest’s wardrobe. Safe on the other 
side, she obeyed Lady Rosamund’s instructions ; and three 
minutes later found herself in the passage that connected the 
lost court with the secret opening at the end of the gallery. 

Dark as it was she knew it must be the same, and grop- 
ing, found her way to the door of the hidden room, where 
she had spent so many happy hours ; the room of the Spanish 
pictures and brocades. 

Very lightly she tapped, but almost immediately the door 
was opened, and against the light which struck at her eyes 
she saw Anthony’s tall figure silhouetted darkly. 

“ You ! ” he exclaimed. “ I thought it must be ” 

“ Lady Rosamund sent me,” the girl broke in to explain. 
And then, without waiting, she plunged into the story she 
had to tell. 

“ Before this, the men who’ve come to search have seen 

345 


THE HOUSE OF THE LOST COURT 

Lady Desmond’s letter,” she went on, breathlessly, at the 
end. ‘‘ So you see, you must speak now. It would do no 
one any good if you did not, for the truth will be known, 
and talked about everywhere. People will say they always 
guessed. Oh, don’t look so grave and doubtful. Be happy. 
Think of your mother. Think of ” 

“ I’m thinking of Paul, too,” said Anthony. “ What matter 
if he isn’t all I once believed him.? How can I take from him 
his title and the place that he inherited.? Better if I died now.” 

‘‘ If you did, you would break your mother’s heart, and — 
kill me. Anthony, I love you — I love you so.” 

Suddenly the cloud of gloom and doubt was lifted from 
his face. His eyes were filled with hght. 

“ My darling ! ” he said, as if in a dream, and she ran to him. 

Then he would have been more or less than man if, lov- 
ing her with all his soul, he had not caught her in his arms 
and held her close. 

For a moment they forgot everything except each other. 
And it was Dolores who remembered first that there was a 
world outside the lost court. 

‘‘ Your cousin Paul is happy, and very rich. Will you 
live — for me.? ” she whispered. 

“ I will,” he answered. “ For you, and for such a love 
as I think no man ever knew.” 

“ Then come out with me, into the light,” the girl said, 
putting her hand in his. 

And Anthony came. He knew that there would be much 
to endure, and a grea^t ordeal to face. But with Dolores, life 
was worth fighting for, and he thought the end was sure. 


THE END 



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